


Amsterdam With You

by flamboyo



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Amsterdam, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dutch Harry, Homesickness, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Loneliness, Louis is big sad, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Mentions of past toxic relationship, New Year's Eve, Nightmares, Past Cheating, Past Relationship(s), Phone Calls, Sad Louis, Sibling Love, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Texting, a matchstick with the pace of a slowburn, an excessive use of the word home, children with illnesses, talks about grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-02-12 18:11:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 182,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21480679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamboyo/pseuds/flamboyo
Summary: In Louis’ opinion Amsterdam issooverrated, and now that he moved here he can see all its flaws: it’s always raining (even more than in London), he’s lonely and everyone he meets is unfriendly and distant; but, above all, he misses his family like crazy, confined here. Not surprising how being hit by a bike by a curly, pensive guy is the best thing that happens to him in three months (or maybe even in 27 years).Or: how to fall in love in a city that you hate, featuring protests, lights, books, cuddles and a whole lot of growth (and tea).
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Liam Payne/Original Female Character(s), Past Harry Styles/Original Male Character, Past Louis Tomlinson/Original Male Character
Comments: 168
Kudos: 430





	1. Early November - 23rd of November

**Author's Note:**

> Hi to you all! Wow, this fic has taken me (and is still taking me) so long to write and finish, I can’t believe I can finally share it. Before I leave it to you, I have some warnings to give and disclaimer to make:  
-As it says in the description, Louis isn’t the happiest to live in Amsterdam: this means that here and there, he will say something mean to the city or to the people who live in it. I absolutely do not think any of the things I wrote: I’ve been to Amsterdam just once, but I loved it so much I spent this past year writing a fic set there. Same with the people: everyone I met has been wonderful, to say to the least (so, if anything, my opinion on the city is the same as Harry’s in here).  
-I don’t speak Dutch! But there are some Dutch sentences throughout the fic that I’ve translated with google (I’ll put the translation of those in the endnotes), so, pleaaaase, if you speak Dutch and see I’ve botched something, feel free to let me know!  
-About the grief tag: I started writing this fic a year ago, which means that this tag is only for Jay. Fizzy appears in this fic.  
-On that, this whole fic is set last year, between November 2018 and January 2019: the dates refer to that.  
-About the child illnesses one (and in general): I’ll write that one in the opening notes of the specific chapter. It’s something that can be skipped.  
The title, is, of course, a play on words with those majestic 12 seconds we have of Always You. If you’re from the future and Walls is already out, 1) I’ll cheers to that 2) can’t wait for that to be me, too 3) I hope it makes sense with the fic
> 
> And hey, talking about music, I’ve made a playlist for this fic! [ You can find it here ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL5momjAjTuX6twPBNWmdXHrC46ATa8szU) (the songs' order is a bit random and I'll probably add more in the next months)
> 
> Okay, all of this been said, I really really hope you will like this!

It’s raining outside and Louis doesn’t want to get out of bed. Those have been two constants in his life these past two months.

He wriggles an arm outside his duvet, shutting the alarm on his phone, then turns on his left side to crack the window open: yep, it’s drizzling outside. Hasn’t stopped since he arrived here in September.

Groaning, he contemplates his options: sure, he could remain in bed for another hour and just shows up late. It wouldn’t even be a problem, since he’s one of the most important people working in the publishing house and people are so _nice_ here, annoyingly and fakely so, without any real concern behind their reassurances. But he loves his job simply too much to miss it without a good excuse; and also, he refuses to leave it in his incompetent co-workers’ hands, even just for few hours: the disastrous proofreading of last month was enough for him to show up even with a fever.

He shouldn’t be so stuck up, he knows, but a mediocre result has always been his first pet peeve, especially when it could be avoided by just a little more commitment and collaboration, but those seem words without any meaning to his colleagues. Or maybe he himself was the problem since everyone else thought it was _fine_ if there were still _grammatical errors_ in the second-last version of a book they should publish _soon_.

He sits ups, his duvet still covering his legs, and opens the window more: the rain falls peacefully on the street and on the people passing by, who don’t seem bothered at all by it; once again, Louis wonders if Dutch people are waterproof or simply have grown accustomed to being always surrounded by water.

Alongside the gentle harmony from the rain, Louis can hear the sound of the city waking up, the cars running slowly down the streets, the bikers speeding through the traffic, and can see, unmistakable and characteristic of this city, the flow of water through the channels, two streets further from his apartment.

Everything appears so calm and beautiful: tourists are still sleeping and the only people awake now are those who live in and respect this city. The sky is its usual plumb grey, but somehow this day seems better than the others: it could be just his mind and his hopes tricking into convincing him, but he’ll take it.

Stepping out of bed, he plugs in his phone and goes to his tiny kitchen to make his first cup of the tea of the day.

He can feel it, _today will be better._

~*~

Despite his best efforts, today was like any other day: dreadful.

When Louis arrives at his flat that afternoon, he drops his bag on the floor without even looking at it, takes off his shoes and goes to plop on his couch, drained and damp.

He’s always _damp_, it’s always _raining_, and it’s always so, so _cold_.

He remains like that for a couple of minutes, hands on his face, trying to think of what to do now: it’s already dark but not as late as usual, and _rationally_ he could do something with his afternoon; he could go having a walk (it’s _raining_, he reminds himself), or to visit a museum or a café, just whatever that’s not sitting around in his tiny living room all by himself.

Louis would love to do all this and even more, but he’s so tired and frustrated about his day and more importantly, he’s _completely alone_ in this city that’s too small and chaotic.

Sighing, he gets up from the couch: for sure it doesn’t make any sense to waste time lazing around while he’s still uncomfortably wet; and who knows, maybe he’ll find something interesting to do. Moving slowly and heavily, he goes to take a shower, knowing how everything will be better once he’ll be warm and dry. He takes his shoes and his bag from the floor and places those in his bedroom. He can’t believe how tidy he has become in these last years; it really takes just a few months living alone to discover the joy of having a clean space.

The walk between his couch, his bedroom and the bathroom is ridiculously short, because his apartment is a shoebox. He had quickly discovered, once he moved here in Amsterdam, that the aesthetic of tall, slim buildings obviously reflected how the houses were on the inside: so every place he had seen was narrow and small. He had to admit though, that even if he disliked so many things about this city, little, cosy homes always warmed his heart.

Once in the bathroom he adjusts the temperature of the shower jet, waiting until it’s hot enough to melt his skin off to enter in the shower: he leans on a wall and stays there, with his eyes closed, breathing slowly through the nose, wishing his headache could loosen like the knots in his back.

Dael, the CEO, had confronted him again this morning about the cover of the book, insisting it was completely fine just like it was; and to be completely honest it wasn’t that bad, but it could be a dozen times better if Louis could just contact the guy who worked in the cover design department again and adjust the last details. They argued again about that, and the cover remained as it was: he was the person in charge of the whole publication of the books they work and will work on, but Dael was still the only one above him. In an open debate between the two, her word will always count more than his.

In Louis’ opinion, the colours were too tawdry to perceive the dreamy atmosphere the story had, and the font chosen for the title was a tiny bit too childish, making the whole book appear cheap and unappealing.

But more importantly, he keeps worrying about the book not fitting the Boekenweek’s standards, the most important book fair and editorial event here in Amsterdam, which is the goal he’s been working on since he moved here. His publishing house is still small in Netherland and has never participated in an editorial event here before, and Louis knows what an amazing opportunity to launch their society that could be.

The Boekenweek application forms are going to close soon, so they should hurry up and close all the practices about this piece as soon as possible while trying to do a good job out of it. But apparently, he was the only one who could feel that pressure, because the rest of the team or keep being too relaxed about the deadlines or straight up don’t care about it.

This was exactly what made him so tired and frustrated: he doesn’t understand how his colleagues can be so disinterested by such a big occasion as this one, trying to tell him that _‘it doesn’t matter’_, _‘we should be set on doing our job and nothing more’_, and so on; or how they don’t really care about the final result, always insisting that as long as it works, there’s no need to do any extra work. The problem was that what they considered ‘_extra work_’, for Louis was still in the ‘_fundamental work_’ category.

He sighs out loud and starts to wash himself: there’s already so much steam in the room, his window is all misted. He can feel some of his tiredness slip away, his body becoming more relaxed. He should focus on the good sides of his life here more, that’s what Liam always tells him when he calls him, but it was harder than usual after such a tiring day. He isn’t used to arguing so much about every detail of his work, and being in such a negative workspace is exhausting.

Louis has always been messy and careless during his life, but that changed when he realised how much he loved books and the editorial world: and to work there he had to give his very best, at any given moment. He had always been a perfectionist, deep down in his heart, and he had finally found something worth working so hard for.

In the first weeks he had moved here in Amsterdam he had tried to balance his need for a well-done job and his perfectionism with being his chill, charming self, but that didn’t work. Even when he actually made an effort to click with everyone else in the publishing house his co-workers always appeared perfectly polite, but distant and cold towards him: Louis has always been the centre of the attention, always had a million friends, and this completely different situation had confused him deeply.

He had tried to not be grumpy, he genuinely did, but it seems that it doesn’t matter what he says or what he does, he still can’t connect with anyone at work or outside of it. At least he used to chat about trivial stuff with his colleagues in the first weeks, but once their different visual on how to do their job was revealed, he had found himself with the invisible label of the _fussy, meticulous pain in the ass_, drinking his tea alone during breaks. He even learnt the Dutch word for it: a _mierenneuker_, that’s how he was acting in their opinion.

He’s so desperate he had read _articles_ on how to make friends, _for fuck’s sake_, but still nothing.

He has no idea of what could be, or actually, he doesn’t know the mix of how many and which things are the problem: he moved, he may still not be over his breakup David, he doesn’t speak Dutch, there may be some cultural differences, maybe his colleagues are simply dickheads… he’s going off track, but he had thought about this so often lately.

He’s not used to be lonely, nor to silence in general: back in England he has so many friends, so many siblings he never had a moment to himself, and he used to think it could be annoying, but this?

This is hell.

He has so much time for himself he doesn’t know what to do with it anymore. For sure he doesn’t want to contemplate how he’s a grown man with his dream job living in an exciting new city, and despite all that he’s miserable, because he currently has no friends and no love life.

Feeling his skin getting sensitive, he steps out of the shower, feeling hundreds of times better than before. He dries himself quickly and looks again out of the window: still drizzling, still windy; the sky is dark even though it’s barely five, and as normal and natural as it is, it still makes his heart aches. He has had this heavy, dark weight sit on his chest for weeks now, and he can’t make it go away.

Maybe he should call Liam: he always succeeds to put a smile on his face. Well, that’s actually a great idea: Louis makes a mental note to call him after he has had dinner. Liam had tried to contact him a few times already this past week, but he has been so busy with his _first publication_ as a _publisher_ he had always forgotten to call him back.

Louis had kidded himself with this whole ‘_take a shower, you’ll feel energic afterwards_’ thing, because now he feels like a noodle, all his fatigue transformed into sleepiness, and nothing would make him want to go out again, especially with no plan and completely alone in the cold rain.

Accepting this as his evening plans, he plops on the couch again, unsure of what to do to burn time until he can have dinner, and then burn some more so he can go to sleep. He thinks, not for the first time, how _unlucky_ he is to have no work left, because that means he has the rest of his day off and no plans in sight.

Yeah, being an adult in Amsterdam is _so_ great.

He has read more books these two months that he had in twenty years, binge watched every decent show on Netflix, and developed a new addiction for YouTube.

But also, time passes so slowly here: there’s something in this damned city that prevents him to have fun, or even just spending a nice afternoon.

Which is absolutely insane to think, because he’s in _Amsterdam_, city of dreams of basically anyone on the planet. It was Louis’ too, once.

He decides to finish a random show that he picked up out of pure boredom: the storyline of the first season was actually refreshing, but after that it just spiralized into a circle of clichés, led by the profound spirit of _‘please don’t cancel us, we love money more than our artistic integrity’_.

_Bitter_, Louis was _bitter_ and projecting his problems on someone else. He clicks play on the new episode, hoping it will distract him for the rest of the evening, and relaxes on the sofa.

The show distracts him nearly too well since the only thing that makes him come back to reality is his rumbling stomach: but even that is an easy, quick fix that doesn’t make his evening any more interesting. Another absurd thing that happened since he became an adult was that now he could actually cook: nothing too fancy, but for sure enough to sustain himself.

Who knows, maybe his mom would be proud of him. Or, more likely, she would just roll her eyes and say “_Finally. Was it really that difficult?_”

The rest of the night is spent in the same slow, boring way of his evening: a written schedule for the next day, another episode, too much time on his Instagram feed, which inevitably makes him cranky; it’s not his friends’ fault if they’re still all together in England having the time of their life, it’s just that Louis misses them so much he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

The only thought that keeps him sane his coming home at the end of December: it’s the only thing that makes everything else worth. He just wants to hug his siblings and hang out with all his friends, especially Liam.

_Damn it, Liam!_ He suddenly remembers. He had forgotten to call him back once again. He quickly closes the app and looks at the hour: it’s half past midnight on a weekday. Even with a one-hour difference, Liam’s probably tired now, and not in the mood to have a conversation that will start with five minutes of apologies by Louis’ behalf. And as much as Louis wants to hear from him, he’s too drained to do it now.

He lets out a frustrated sound and throws his head back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

It’s absurd, because as lonely as he is, he should be obsessed with calling people and keeping in touch, but he can’t do it. He has no idea of what stops him to call Liam back, even when Liam texts him beforehand, or why he has heard so little from his siblings lately, especially considering how much he used to call them when he was in London, or even when he had just moved out in here.

And then every night, right before when he’s slipping into his dreams, he would get hit by the realization that it has been another whole day, and he still hasn’t spoken with any of his friends, he had forgotten to call and text and hear from any of them. He tries to remember it, he really does, he even writes himself notes both on post-its and his phone, but then the next day he will be too busy to remember it, or too tired to do it.

He turns off the phone, aware of how much time he has wasted on that, and gets up from the couch where he has been for the past hours, going to have his night bathroom routine; then he slips into his bed, just as exhausted and rancorous as he was when he came back into the flat.

_Whatever_, he thinks, closing his eyes. _Maybe tomorrow will finally be a better one_.

He doesn’t ponder on the fact that he went to sleep thinking always this same thing since he moved here, _in the city of his dreams_, and tries to sleep.

  
~*~

It’s not very surprising, but the next day is just like the others, which means it’s somehow boring and heart-breaking at the same time.

Louis stops telling himself the next day will be a better one.

~*~

All these bad days just morph into another, and then another again: there are days where he doesn’t know which day of the week it is, because he’s so tired and bored, and he feels like the time is just all mushed together without any meaning behind it.

Without realising it, the publication of his first book finally comes to his door.

Which means he has the first draft of the book in his _hands_, _now_, in this windy, leaden Friday morning, surrounded by his colleagues who aren’t nearly as teary-eyed as him (but that’s their problem for being so cold, not his). Even if they got the colouring all wrong and the spaces between the paragraphs are maddening, this is still his first baby.

Louis knows it could seem an exaggeration, but he perfectly remembers when he held for the first time all his siblings, and there’s something sweetly familiar about this moment: the book is pure and candid, and nobody has read it yet, outside the small circle of people in the room. The only copies existing at the moment are the four on the table (plus one cradled in Louis’ hands); it hasn’t been exposed yet to the criticism and the nastiness of the world.

Louis has to say though, this book is a little ugly and he would like to change so many things about it, and he never had thought anything remotely similar about his beloved babies.

“You can take the rest of the day off,” Dael interrupts his bonding, with her clear voice that has no accent left at all in the cadence of her words. “We will present the work to the author on Monday. Try to find as many flaws as possible in the copy, we will discuss those in the next meeting. And please,” she adds looking straight at Louis. “Just real flaws. The book has been revised countless times, the major of the work is done.”

Louis fights the urge to roll his eyes and to stick his tongue out. He’s aware of how different their modus operandi is, but she could avoid making these kinds of comments just for him. He knows he is a pain in the ass for her in the same ways, but at least he’s always arguing for making their work _better_ (they don’t agree on that one, either).

Instead, he just half-smiles at her, still hugging his copy. The other guys are starting to leave the room, chatting in Dutch. Louis doesn’t even find it rude anymore. He’s pretty sure that Maarten and Sven are organising something for now or for tonight, and by the excitement of it, Isa will also join them. The others have already left.

A month or so ago, he would have asked them about it, trying to fit in their planes even if all the signals pointed to them not wanting him: he was so alone and desperate, he couldn’t not even try. But after some clear _no_ in his face (he had learnt that Dutch people tend to be very direct with their opinion) he made peace with it, and simply left them to exclude him. Lately, he had started to feel so tired all the time that even if they had invited him somewhere, he would have refused.

Still, this moment pains him more than usual: they have created something together, managed to realise the biggest dream of this author. He has in hands the physical copy of his biggest accomplishment, the one thing that he dreamt since he was at Uni, and he has nobody to share his joy with: no team, no Liam, no Lottie… just him and his silence.

He knows that having a drink with the boss is not ideal for many people, especially if his team has never gone along much, but proposing something will have no effect whatsoever, so Louis has to just accept it and go on with his life.

“What about the applications for the Boekenweek, Dael?” he asks, picking up his stuff, preparing to leave. She’s still organising all the folders scattered around their big meeting table. Louis had asked her a couple of times if she needed help and she always refused, so now he just ignores it like everyone else.

“That’s not in our plans, Louis, we’ve already discussed that,” she sighs, like he’s being difficult.

“It would be an amazing opportunity for all of us and you know that,” he says calmly, pausing his movements. “We could be get invited in the future for so many events and actually build a name for ourselves-”

“Louis-”

“Not to mention that Boekenweek is the most important editorial event in Netherland and it’s _right here _in Amsterdam. Why shouldn’t I send them a copy today? Tell me.”

She sighs again, and finally raises her head from her folders and gives him the privilege to look at him in the eyes.

“How many times we have to discuss this? We don’t have enough employees here to be such a public network yet-”

“If we participate in these kinds of events, we would have a rise in selling and then we would be able to have as many workers and interns as we like-”

“It’s not so simple-”

“And even if it doesn’t work out for the foreseeable future, why wouldn’t we promote this book? _Lost In Japan_ could be easily become one of the young adult masterpieces of this generation and you know it,” he says, maybe too fast, just to not get interrupted again.

“Louis,” Dael says, her voice hard. “We can’t afford it. And even if we could, _as a team_ we have decided to not send anything to Boekenweek this year. You have to accept that what we decide as a team is more important than what _you_ may want on your own. I know you’re the publisher, but this isn’t your company. You can’t do whatever you want.”

“I’m just trying to do the _best thing_ for this company and you know it, when I was in London-”

“You’re not in London anymore. And you must respect me and the decision I’ve made, or there could be consequences. So, bye Louis.”

Louis feels like he’s been slapped in the face. But he does recognise that keeping arguing over and over the same stuff won’t make any difference, so he just straightens his back and stuffs his bag with the rest of his belongings.

“Fine. I’ll see you on Monday, then,” he says, trying to keep his rage outside his voice.

“Bye, Louis,” she repeats, just to not give him the last word, and goes back to her folding.

Louis quickly greets and wishes a happy weekend to the few who haven’t left yet, and finally gets ready to go out in the cold.

_Liam_, he needs to call Liam: he has the physical need to share his joy, disappointment, rage and everything between it with someone. Maybe later on in the day he’ll call his sisters, too, but right now he needs to complain to a friend.

He takes his phone from his pocket and starts searching Liam’s name while keeps walking: he’s in the suburb of the city so there aren’t many tourists in this area, thank god, so there’s no danger in crushing with some lost, confused looking weed-or-art enthusiast.

Liam picks up at the third ring, despite being early morning. He’s an angel.

“It’s a disaster,” Louis starts without even saying _hello_. “It’s my baby and I love it with all my heart, but it’s so fucking ugly, Li.”

“Wo-woah, what?” poor lad. He sounds so tired, like he just woke up. Louis always wishes the absolute best for him, even if he doesn’t tell him often enough.

“The book, Li, it’s fucking _baby blue_,” Louis continues, like that could explain everything. Thankfully, he and Liam have been friends for long enough to get each other.

“They didn’t,” Liam gasps just a bit too much and Louis knows he’s making fun of him, but he’ll take it.

“They fucking did. I don’t know what they have in their minds, lad, but it’s just so ugly. I would never buy it.” He sighs and crosses a random road. He has nothing to do, surprisingly, and he just wants to wander around and get lost. “I’m supposed to show it to Shawn myself on Monday, but I can’t do that, I hate it.”

Shawn is the author of the book: he’s young, full of dreams and potential. When Louis had read his story for the first time he was blown away by the talent of the boy. He had never felt so sure in saying _‘trust me, you’ll have this published in a few months’_; the long, thankful email that he got back from him was exactly why he decided to get into this field in the first place.

And now he had to give this monstrosity to him.

“Shawn is so happy to become a published author that he would take a book written in comic sans,” Liam reminds him. It’s enough to make Louis snorts: that’s true, Shawn is so nice and joyful that he would go beyond _a lot_.

“Still,” Louis continues. “The distance between the paragraphs is just too much, and the titles of the chapters are too big, and-”

“Louis-”

“And Dael just told me another no for the book fair thing, can you believe that? It doesn’t make any sense! It’s such a big deal, it could push this book up so much but no, let’s not promote our work, let’s-”

“Louis,” Liam interrupts him again. “Stop. Breathe.” He commands him.

Louis stops.

He has never seen the street he’s on now, but he’s not far from where he was before: the channel on the other side of the road is the same that flows near his office, but he has never explored this portion of the city. There’s no one around.

“You have worked on this book for as long as you’ve been there. You have done everything you could to make it looks perfect for _your_ standards-”

“Not mine,” he reminds Liam. “Shawn said-”

“If Shawn has something to say about it, they will change it. It’s his work, after all. But what I want to say is that you have done so much for him and this work, okay? You’re publishing a _book_, Lou, a real one, and you have cured the project from start to finish. See the good. Mind just that.”

Liam is a lot of things: pragmatic, for example, goal-orientated, always focused on what is important. Above all, he’s Louis’ best friend, and he always knows what to tell him during a crisis.

“You’re getting lost in something that’s not worth it and you’re forgetting all the amazing things you’ve done to complete this. And I’m so, so sorry for the fair thing, but you have so many upcoming projects, you could take part in so many other events, soon, alright? I’m sorry for this one but it’s just your _first_.”

“It’s just…” he bites his lip and puff in frustration; Liam waits. “I just wanted this to be a good one, you know? It’s the first one, I wanted it to be perfect.” Louis looks down to his feet: there’s a big puddle beside him, and he has lived here long enough to know that bikers are everywhere and always in a hurry, so he moves out of its radius.

“Lou, it’s _just_ your first one. You still have to mind Dael’s opinion, you’re away from home, in a different country… You have to keep these things in mind and putting them all before the result. Think of how much you’ve done _despite_ all of this.” Louis can hear Liam’s voice building up: he knows he’s going in the right direction by saying this and he’s becoming more confident in how to reassure Louis.

“I don’t know if I can genuinely like it,” he adds. He wants Shawn to be happy about it, but he doesn’t know how much it will work since he’s the first one to not liking it.

“And who cares if you don’t?”

“Lad, _what_,” he can’t help but blurt out.

The wind cuts his face, sharply. It’s supposed to snow today.

“Your taste has changed so much, Lou, you don’t like most of the stuff you’ve worked on in the past years. It will change again, let it do its thing.” Liam sighs; Louis can see him, while he passes a hand over his face, with his pronounced dark circles, his tired eyes: because Liam has a baby, Liam is a _father_ now. He’s probably not getting enough sleep with Kai, maybe he had another discussion with Meli… God, Louis hasn’t even asked him how he’s doing. Also, he is at work right now.

“I still like the things that I loved at the time.” He says, just for being difficult.

“Yeah, thank god you still like the layout of the Uni newspaper that you’ve worked on all thought Uni. You went hysteric for that.”

“That’s-”

“A word with misogynist undertones, yeah, but you get me.”

Louis gets him, and more importantly, Liam always gets Louis; he was saying that just because he didn’t have anything else to protest with and having the last word in every argument is a necessity for him.

“Yeah, I do.” He takes a breath. “Thank you, man. I really needed it.” He starts walking again, following the path of the channel, still on the pavement. “How are you doing? How’s Kai? Good as always, yeah? You have to send me pics, man, I miss him so much.” _I miss you_, he wants to say. _I didn’t know I could miss someone this much, and I miss Doncaster, too, can you believe that? I miss all those morons we have for friends, I’m getting crazy in this city, everything is so quiet, I’m always alone, I hate it._

He bites his tongue and doesn’t say any of that.

“He misses you too, he-”

“Said his first words? And they were ‘where is Lou, my best friend’?” Louis teases him.

“No, you dickhead,” Liam fakes a scoff and continues. “He’s great, Lou,” Louis can already feel Liam’s smile: children are truly a blessing. “Two more teeth popped up last week, he’s chewing everything he can get his hands on nowadays. He always gets spit all over my knuckles and I don’t even care, he’s too cute.”

Louis believes that too easily: Kai has always been a lovely, happy child, and it’s so amazing to see babies grow, changing day by day. He’s always been such a little warrior, fighting against the odds, but he’s great now, and Louis loves him more than anything else. Wow, if Louis doesn’t go back home right now he will combust. He can’t believe is missing all this, and for what? For a book he doesn’t even want to show to its author?

He shakes his head, like wanting to physically get the thought out of it.

“I can believe that, lad, I miss him so much. Give him a cuddle from me, alright?”

“Will do, Lou. Listen-” someone from the other side of the phone says something to Liam. “Lou, I’m at work, I should call you back.” Suddenly, he sounds even more tired than before. Louis would go swimming from the channel on his left to Liam’s office back in Manchester just to give him a hug and let him sleep more than three hours per night, if he could.

To be honest, Louis would do anything to get back home.

Instead, he just says: “Bye Li, I’ll call you back this evening, okay? Take care, get some _sleep_, for the love of god.”

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise you anything.” There are some swish sounds from Liam’s behalf. “Wait, before you go, promise me something, alright?”

That’s new. “What?”

“Try to see the good in what you’re doing. Try to appreciate your work.” Hearing Louis’ sigh, Liam continues with more energy: “Take that book out and think about everything you love about it. Just positive things. Call Shawn, no email, a real call, and explain the situation without putting any blame on you or on anyone else.”

A beat passes.

“That’s it?” Louis asks. He doesn’t recognise anything from where he’s standing now: he has no idea of where he is.

“Yeah, that’s it. Please, try to be positive, okay? You always sound so tired.”

“You should hear yourself, then.” Louis mutters.

“A different kind of tired, and I know you know that.” Liam pauses for a moment. “I didn’t send my best friend to follow his dreams in Amsterdam to have him back like this, okay?” he adds gently.

Louis has to swallow his tears back before he can replay to that.

“Yeah, I’ll try. Bye, Li.” At least his voice doesn’t shake as much as he does.

“Bye Lou, take care, love you.”

“Love you too.” He hangs up quickly, with shaking hands.

He won’t shed tears in the middle of the street, he knows that, but he feels so rattled after that brief chat. God, he just wanted to bitch about Dael and the shitty work they have done, not getting stuck in a serious conversation.

Damn Liam and his empathy.

He should listen to him though. Well, he knows he _should_. No matter how difficult it is, if he’s not the first one who believes in changing, things can’t go differently, even if it’s been months and the weight on his chest just gets heavier and heavier.

The wind keeps blowing at full force, ice cold and biting.

He stops walking again: he should take his phone out and figuring out how to go back to his flat, but before doing that he wants to give another look at _his baby_.

Listening to Liam, he takes it out of his bag, blocking every negative thought that comes to his mind as soon as he sees it. He has to give more credit to himself and to his team: yeah, they don’t get along at all, but they did create a book together, and that’s a lot.

He caresses the cover gently, thinking of how much he has worked on it and how much he has sacrificed to get to this point.

He quickly glances both sides of the road: not a car or a bike in sight, and the channel looks so pretty and calm now; he wants to read his favourite bits near it, listening to its serene flow.

He opens the book randomly and starts looking for them as he crosses the road, still paying attention with his ears to what happens in the road.

It probably isn’t enough, because next things he knows there’s a sudden, excruciating pain on his left side and he finds himself on the ground with nothing left in his hands.

“Wha-” his voice doesn’t come out right: he’s out of breath, but he’s _still_; his head his pounding and he starts coughing on nothing. He has no idea of what is happening to his body, apart from the pain on his left side, maybe his hip?

Somewhere outside himself he hears a lot of noises, but he can’t understand any of it. He tries to get himself up, but his hands are shaking so much there’s no actual use in them, and as soon as he moves all his left side sends him a shocking pain, making him groan and relax back on the ground. Those sounds are so weird and repetitive, it almost seems like… someone calling him?

“_Hey, hey? Gaat het wel goed? Vertel me alsjeblieft dat je in orde bent. Vertel me alsjeblieft iets._” He finally grasps it: those are words. He knows words, just not those in particular, but someone is trying to communicate with him.

He tries, really tries to raise his head, but there’s too much fog in his brain and too much brightness in the air, it makes his head hurt even more.

“_Verplaats niet als je gewond bent! Wil je wat water?_” he hears some fumbling and turns his head: there’s a bike on the ground, near him. The guy fussing over him has probably hit him with it. Great, exactly what Louis needed. “_Begrijp jij mij? Spreek je Nederlands??_” Finally, the guy says a clumps of sounds Louis can grasps; with all the power Louis can muster, he shakes his head, weakly. “No? English is good?” at that he nods. He feels so nauseated.

He closes his eyes just for a second, to gather the strength to get up from the ground because it’s been awhile and it’s _embarrassing_, that’s what is it, when he sees the shadows change in front of him and before he can open them again, he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t fall asleep on me! Are you _concussed_? Did you hit your head? Should I ask you questions? I have no idea of how to do this, that’s so _ironic_, tell me anything, _please_.”

Louis opens his eyes again, feeling annoyed over anything else.

There’s a guy crouched in front of him, his face so close_, too close_ to his, with the most worried expression he has ever seen: his eyebrows are knitted, his eyes (so… _green_? So _pretty_) are popped open, his mouth (so _pink_ and _inviting_) is twisted in a grimace.

Oh, this guy is _hot_. And he hasn’t stopped talking for a single second since he launched Louis on the ground and that his giving him a headache, on top of everything else.

“Mate,” Louis says, with quite a bit of difficulty, placing his hand on top of the guy’s one on his shoulder. “Would you shut up for a second? Please.”

“Oh!” the guy’s eyes get even bigger, if that’s possible, and he backs away slightly, but keeps his hand firmly in place, on Louis’ shoulder. “Sure, sure, I’ll do it, do you need anything? Water? Did you hit-”

“_Mate_,” Louis groans again. He’s not being nice, and even if this guy hit him and he’s trying to make him feel better, he’s still talking too much. Louis just wants some quiet and a moment of peace so he can get on his feet again and going back to his flat to have a cup of tea, or a nap. Even as hot as this guy is, he’s not interested in pursuing a conversation sitting on the ground with a stranger, with the freezing wind still going in full force. He feels like he’s on the verge of tears again, and this time he doesn’t know how to keep them at bay.

He’s just so, so tired. Maybe he can take his nap here.

“Okay, okay,” the guy shows his palm in surrender. “Just so you know, I have water. And I’ll wait until I’m certain that I haven’t killed you, okay?” And with that, he scoots back even further, his hand leaving Louis’ shoulder.

Louis nods absently, trying to figure out how much damage the guy has done without moving too much: he feels so embarrassed to be hit by a bike like a tourist, the creatures he hates most on the planet, and by a guy this good looking. Once his heartbeat has calmed down a little, he throws him a look with his head still bowed: the guy has a beanie that covers entirely his hair, but some random curls escape to it, by his ears and his neck. He’s still sitting on the lane, scrolling on his phone, probably giving Louis the space he needs: Louis feels slightly better in knowing that it must be an unpleasant situation for him, too.

After another couple of minutes spent breathing slowly and applying weight on different parts of his legs, Louis founds his voice again:

“At what speed where you going, by the way? You wrecked me.” He mutters. The fog is slowing leaving his brain, making him realize what just happened.

“What?” the guy raises his head from the phone, his mouth still slightly open by the question. Now that Louis sees him better, he realises that he’s not hot, he’s pretty, and that’s completely different. He has something ethereal to his look, like a veil of candour on his features. His skin is candid, his cheeks and nose rosy, probably redden by the cold wind; he’s looking at Louis with polite curiosity, his green eyes staring at him. Louis doesn’t care about any of this.

“You were going pretty fast,” Louis repeats. “I didn’t hear you at all.”

Pretty Guy frowns. It’s such a different expression from before, Louis’ caught off guard; he doesn’t like that look on him.

“Well,” he says slowly. “That’s my lane. My speed over there is my business.”

“I’m not discussing that,” Louis responds. Still sitting on the ground, he shifts his weight to his left leg to test how he feels. A bit sore, still, but it’s probably just for the impact. “I’m just saying, you were dead silent, dead fast over there. That and being on a bike? Not an ideal combo, y’know?” He shoots his eyebrows at him to underline what he’s saying. He sounds a bit scolding, his big brother voice in full force, but he can’t help it: the shock of the impact had worn out and he sees the situation more clearly now; he was hit by a bike, and even if he was on the wrong lane it’s still the guy’s fault. He could have done so much more damage than that.

The frown over the guy’s face deepens, and he narrows his eyes, assuming a defensive stance: Louis suddenly realises how taller than him he is, his shoulders definitely wider, and even though it’s clear he won’t use that on his advantage, he mirrors his posture in a more combative one.

“I’m sorry that I hit you,” he says, looking displeased but not subdued. “It’s just that, you know, there aren’t people on the street, usually. Pedestrians use the sidewalk around here.” He adds, a bit too condescending, and he glares back at Louis, who, well, doesn’t take that very good.

“Well, pal, you should be more careful than that, you could’ve done a proper job on me,” he bites back, with probably too much heat. He knows he shouldn’t, not with this bitchy tone, with a note of fake superiority, but he’s so pissed off and angry he can’t, or better, he doesn’t _want_ to be civil right now. Even if the other man was helpful as he could be, sitting on the ground with him, waiting for him to feel better, his day was shit, this past week was, too, his whole permanence in this fucking city has only been shit from the start to now. He feels the frustration of these last three months piling up in his chest, taking all it out on this random man and he doesn’t even care about how rude he’s being.

“Well, _mate_,” the guy growls, no more defensive but as pissed as Louis. “If you weren’t wandering all lost on my lane, we wouldn’t have this conversation at all. Don’t you know how this city works?” he finishes with a set look in his eyes, and then he adds under his breath: “_Verdomde toeristen._”

And Louis may not have been here for long, but the tone alone was enough to understand what the man has just said.

“I’m not a tourist,” he exclaims, indignant. He doesn’t even know why he’s so outraged to be called one, or why he’s so angry in general. Maybe the lack of sleep, or the one of human interactions, who knows. His tears are long forgotten; he just wants to argue, now. “I live here, and I’ve never been hit before. Maybe _you_ should rethink your riding capabilities.” He knows how that sounds as soon as it’s out of his mouth, but he already said it, so he has to stay by it. He commands himself to not blush too much and to keep looking at the other in the eye.

A wriggle passes in the man’s eyes, and for a brief moment the tension got suspended between the two, to be replaced by a moment of awkward and hilarious understanding.

The moment is quickly over, and the guy shakes his head, sighing and looking exasperated.

“What I have to say to you, congratulations? It was such an honour to be the first?” Damn, that was too spot-on to be casual. He looks down at his phone, and then starts to stand up. “Can you stand up?” he asks, picking his bike from the ground. “So I can leave knowing I didn’t do anything too serious?”

Louis would jump up in a second if he could, just to avoid another second in this man’s company. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, I’m good,” he says, getting up slower than usual, trying to conceal how his left leg is still wobbly. His hip keeps shooting pain down his left leg and onto his lower back, but he can ignore it. He is stable on his two feet now, he just needs to take his bag and his book, and he can finally go back to his flat and live his best life as a recluse.

His bag is still on his shoulder, never left it, so that’s a relief, and his book is…

_Where_ is his book?

He can feel the blood drain from his face. He pats his bag and it’s obvious that it is not there. In a shocking moment, he realizes that he doesn’t remember what he did with it, did he take it from the bag? Did he lose it? _How?_

His worry must be obvious, because the other guy stops to fake-checking his phone, and, as if nothing had happened, he goes back to be as concerned as their first chat.

“Are you feeling sick? You went completely white, oh god, did you actually hit your head? _Shit_.” He leaves his bike leaning on a random car parked near him and takes a couple of steps towards Louis, but overall remains pretty distant.

“My book,” Louis whisper, eyes fixed on his bag, like he’s afraid of saying out loud that he had lost the baby he had just a couple of hours ago. “I had a book with me. How did… what-”

“Oh,” the man says. He sounds relieved and Louis has no idea of what he could be thinking but he doesn’t care at all, he has a priority here. “I’m… sorry about it? But are you feeling good?” he asks again, pressing on the matter.

“I had it in my hand,” Louis suddenly remembers, raising his head like he had a breakthrough. “I was reading it when you hit me, so I dropped it? It’s around here?” without sparing him a second glance, he starts looking for it on the ground.

“You were _reading_ while crossing the road?” the man nearly shouts, the disbelief in his voice as clear as a day. “And you still argued that it was _my_ fault? You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you’re totally right,” Louis says dismissively, still looking for it. If he had a clearer head, he would probably recognize how uncivil he’s acting, and how the other man is totally right _for real_, but this is not the right moment.

When he finally sees it, he can’t help but gasp: it landed in a tree’s flowerbed, flowing in the mud. It’s such bad, bad luck. The tears he has been fighting these last minutes come right back, stronger than ever. Louis feels ridiculous, but as he gets nearer it, he can distinctively feel the weight that has been on his chest for months becoming heavier and suffocating him.

He hadn’t noticed how much he was shaking until he crouches down to reach out to it and flip it, to reveal a cover stained and soggy with mud.

“Oh no no no,” he’s repeating without even realizing it. He starts to wipe off the mud with his hands, but it does nothing to the stains.

It feels like a punch in the gut, just like when his sister Lottie broke her ankle when he wasn’t watching her, too busy playing footie with his new friends. He had been distracted for five minutes and those were enough for her to start exploring a pit, slip on the damp grass and twisting her ankle. Louis is still sure he cried more than her that day.

“Here, here.”

Louis doesn’t know why the other man still hasn’t left, or why he’s bothering offering Louis a Kleenex, since the wiping with his bare hand isn’t going anywhere, but he feels all his rage vanishing away and leaving an empty shell of himself. He’s too tired to keep faking an argument he never wanted to have. He takes it without saying a word, just with a bow of the head, but when he sees how useless it is, he has to stop to close his eyes shut and take a deep breath.

He’s not stable on his feet, so he leans on the tree. He knows that if one tear is out, a waterfall will follow.

He knows he’s always been a crier, but all of this is too much for him. This _last month alone_ has been too much for him. All the work, the bad days, the moving, the quarrels and the loneliness, he had done it for this. For publishing books, for making his and new authors’ dreams come true, and, even if it’s a bit of a stretch, to make the world a better place, one book at a time.

This is his first real work, the first copy of all his effort, everything he believes in it, and he left it in the dirt for god knows how long to try arguing with a stranger.

He has to show this copy to Shawn on Monday, and it’s ruined.

When he’s sure his tears won’t get spilled without his consent, he opens his eyes again, fixing them over the guy. He looks more worried than before, if it is possible, his big green eyes open wide, fixed on Louis, his arms slightly stretched out, like he’s afraid Louis is going to fall or faint at any given moment.

“I’m sorry,” Louis croaks out. “It was your lane, you were right. I’m just,” he makes some random gesture with his hands. “I’ll just get going. Thank you for checking on me.” He doesn’t have the energy to be angry anymore. He just wants to have a good cry or a long nap. Possibly both.

“No, hey, hey, wait,” the other man places himself in front of him. He looks baffled by Louis’ change of attitude, but more than that he looks bothered by this situation. “I’m sorry too, I was distracted, I, I could’ve paid more attention. It’s, just, are you alright?” he ends, gesturing the book.

“It was my fault, so,” he shrugs, bypassing the real question he was asked, barely looking at the guy. “It’s whatever, man. I’m sorry, really.” He looks down at it again: it’s still damp, and the mud stains don’t look like they could ever be removed. He bites his lip and forces himself to look at the guy again: he doesn’t have the stomach to see his work reduced in that state.

“It may be your fault but it’s also mine,” the other continues, with a heated voice. “And I feel so bad about it. Like, it’s obvious how much you care about it?” he ends it like a question, like he doesn’t want to presume Louis’ feelings but the situation and Louis’ reaction are too obvious to ignore.

“I mean, yeah, I-”

“Can I buy you another copy?”

At that, Louis widens his eyes, incredulous. _What?_

His expression must be telling, because the guy continues rapidly: “Like, okay, if it’s so important probably a new copy won’t do much, but I’m so sorry about it and you look so distressed and-”

“Hey,” Louis interrupts him, confused. “Did you forget that I attached you out of nowhere two minutes ago? You don’t owe me anything.”

“I wasn’t, like, out of _nowhere_!” he exclaims. Louis shoots his eyebrows up, but the guy continues: “I still hit you, and we were both angry, and I wasn’t that polite either.” He’s embarrassed about the whole situation, like he himself isn’t sure about the protocol he should adopt, but set.

Louis feels too tired for all this, but despite everything he feels the beginning of a smile creeping up. If anything, just for this guy’s naivety. He’s so weirdly emphatic. Considering all the bikers in town, he’s glad he was hit by this one.

_Damn, that was a weird thought to have._

“Still,” Louis continues, “You couldn’t even if I let you, this is not on sale yet.” At the other’s confused face, Louis keeps explaining: “Like, this is mine, it’s still just a test copy of it, it-”

“Oh!” he gasps so loudly he interrupts Louis. “Did you write this?” he quickly takes a look at the cover of the book, “Shawn?”

“Oh, no,” he shakes his head. “I didn’t, my name’s Louis, I’m-”

“Oh, I’m Harry,” _Harry_ says, like an afterthought.

“Harry,” Louis is exhausted, and if Harry doesn’t stop interrupting him he’s going to leave without another word. Harry is incredibly energetic and totally set on making Louis feel better, and who knew, maybe freaking out that much over a book has this effect on cute boys, but he’s drained. “I didn’t write the book, I’m a publisher and I cured the _project_ of this book. This morning we were given the test copy, I have the presentation with the author on Monday.”

“Oh shit,” Harry covers his mouth with a hand. “But that’s a disaster.”

Louis snorts at that. _That’s the understandment of the year._

“It kinda is, I have to find a solution for this now.” He’s not actually thinking about it, he shoved the thought under a rug in his mind, because if he actually starts to ponder how he can fix this situation he’s going to have a meltdown. The responsibilities he has for the contract between the author and the publishing house are a lot to think about, and even though he’s naturally a leader and likes to have others leaning on him, he can’t do that while he’s emotionally distressed.

“So, you know,” he sighs. For a weird moment, this last exchange of lines with _Harry_ had made him feel like maybe what just happened wasn’t such a disaster; it made him forget about work and the pressure on his shoulders. But the moment is over, and he has just a weekend to think about what to do. “I should probably get going.” He half-smiles at Harry and goes to take a step down the street.

“Ok, no, wait wait wait,” Harry puts himself again in front of him. He’s_ a lot _taller than Louis, his shoulder a lot wider, he can see that better now that they’re both standing up, and he’s very determined, which makes Louis feel like he has no choice but listen to him.

“What now?” Louis just wants to go to his couch. He’s tired of this.

“I just, feel like shit now. Can I at least offer you a coffee?”

That makes all Louis’ thoughts and conjectures stop dead in their tracks. “What? What are you talking about?”

At that Harry grows even more embarrassed and unsure, offering a wobbly smile, like he’s certain of what he wants but has no idea of to accomplish it. He keeps his head high and continues: “You feel like shit now. I do too. I can’t do anything about it but offer you a coffee and a chat, and maybe after that you’ll feel less shitty, less angry at me?”

“It was-”

“Let’s agree it was both our fault and forget about it, okay?”

“I…” Louis’ at loss for words. He doesn’t get Dutch people and probably never will. “I mean, thank you? But I have to call my colleagues to figure out what to do with the situation.” He reminds Harry, swinging the book a bit, as if he could’ve forgotten it.

Harry frowns for a moment and then asks: “I mean, is that the only test copy you have?”

“It’s the only one I have, my colleagues have their own, but-”

“Then what is the problem?” he looks genuinely confused now. “You could just borrow one Monday morning.”

Thing is, Harry is completely right. He could just call whichever of them and ask for a favour, no big deal at all. Still a bother, sure, but not insurmountable problem. Now that he thinks of it, it’s probably the only option: he can’t present a book in the condition his copy is right now, and he can’t make the stains disappear. They will be pissed as hell at him, but he’s the one who has to give the presentation, so there’s no choice.

That’s obviously not the thing that’s killing Louis this much, though. He looks at the copy once again, seeing the whole life he left in England for it. Three months of loneliness and silence. He can feel the Universe mocking him, at this moment.

The silence by Louis’ part stretches out, while he tries to decide what he should do, if he should refuse or accept the coffee and the chat at this point: he still feels like sleeping for a hundred years and mourning his recent loss, and to be honest, he has no idea how to have a conversation with a stranger anymore.

But also, he can’t help but wonder: _what does this guy actually want?_ Incidents like this happen all the time here because tourists aren’t used to be surrounded by bikes, and those often reveal to be more dangerous than cars. He was lucky, in a sense, because Harry had just turned the corner, so in retrospect he wasn’t going _that_ fast, but in the city centre there were worse incidents every day. Still, Louis knows for a fact that Dutch people don’t give a fuck about those who they’ve hit: more often than not they’re as careful as they can be, but as Harry said, those are their lanes.

And also, he can’t think about a single person who he’s met living here who would drop their morning to look after a stranger: you’re on your own here. So, should he directly ask Harry what does he wants? Nah, that doesn’t sound realistic: what kind of question is that, and what kind of answer could Harry give him?_ “You nearly cried over a book, I want to check you’re not concussed”? “You really look like you need some human interaction”?_

Louis is definitely overthinking this, there’s nothing as complicated as what he’s imaging, he should just-

“If you don’t want to,” Harry says, outside of his bubble of hypothesis, “You really don’t have to. I’m sorry, I’ve come off too strongly.”

_Ooops_, Louis was probably silent for too long. He focuses his attention back on him: Harry had taken a step back, to get out of Louis’ way, his expression displeased and serious, his thin eyebrows knitted. Louis watches him walks up to his bike, his mind going a hundred miles per second: his indecision is tied to his weariness, his growing incapability of chatting to people, to the discomfort he is already projecting onto the chat.

But what he has to gain in going back to his cold, lonely flat and growing worried and worried about a problem he already has a solution for? And for what concerns the wellbeing of himself, how good could that be?

It doesn’t have to be like that. _Louis has never been like that._

And for what it’s worth, for sure it is better to spend a couple of hours with a cute guy, who’s been nice enough to care about him and his book, who have waited until Louis got on his feet again to check if he was injured.

“Maybe I want to,” he says, enjoying how Harry immediately stops giving his attention to his bike and turning back to him. He’s far more surprised than him to have agreed on the coffee, but he conceals that pretty well. “You know, now that you suggested the perfect solution.”

Harry takes the bike and rests it on his hip. “It was quite a simple one,” he snorts.

“I know, I’m a worrier.” Louis shrugs like he wants to say, _what can you do? _Well, he has never been like this, but people change. “You sure that this is not a bother for you?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if it was,” Harry promptly replays. “But no, I have the afternoon shift today. Free morning.”

“Well, in that case… _Laten we gaan?_” His pronounce is all wrong, but at that Harry’s smile grows even bigger, his eyes twinkling like Louis just told him the secret of life.

“_In deze richting!_” he exclaims, pulling his bike near him and walking up on the pavement.

Louis smiles to himself, placing himself on Harry’s left, following him.

_The problem probably isn’t the Dutch population_, Louis muses, puzzled but now charmed, _I have to put this weirdness on this guy alone_.

The walk to the bar is not long, Louis still limping a bit and Harry asking him all kinds of questions about his work, to which he replays in short, polite sentences. Harry guides him towards _‘such a cute place, I mean, I’ve never been inside but they have fairy lights and succulents, y’know?’, _and boy, doesn’t Louis knows all about that vibe with his four young adult sisters (Doris still being more into dinosaurs than aesthetic, and Ernie seeming to like everything too much to have just _one thing_), but he’s glad nevertheless to have accepted this as a morning plan.

The inside of it matches the same lovely stereotype: a smiley girl with lilac hair and coloured tattoos takes their orders (“_Black tea, do you have earl grey? Thank you”; “A matcha latte, can I have it with almond milk, please? Oooh, that’s lovely, thank you!”_) and then they go towards a dark wooden table near one of the big windows that overlook the street and the channel.

The table has a lighted candle on it. It’s like, eleven in the morning.

This place is _so_ pretentious but Harry seems to love it, snapping pictures at the walls’ decorations and the plants as soon as the girl turns around.

It comes on his mind, like a wind gust, that David would have laughed at this place. Not in a mean way, David’s never been mean, just in a sneering one; they would have exchanged a look, while walking past it, hand in hand, and share an eye roll about it. That lasted for just the first weeks of living in London though: bars like these were far too popular to be minded every single time.

Louis shakes his head. He has stopped to actively think about David a while ago, but thoughts like those are out of his control.

“So,” Louis starts, sitting down with his back to the wall, placing his beloved book in the chair next to him. The pages inside are clean, but they already got wrinkly because of the humidity. He looks back to Harry, trying to distract himself: “What do you do? Apart from hitting people with your bike?” He doesn’t know who’s more surprised he said that, if Harry, who hangs his mouth open and then barks out a laugh, clearly caught off guard, or Louis himself, who hasn’t cracked a joke (that worked) in god knows how long.

“You’ll think it’s ironic.” He says with a toothy grin. He takes his jacket off, and under it he wears a brown, giant jumper, with green patterns along the loose sleeves. It rides up a bit on his wrist, and makes a tattoo come out for a second but not long enough for Louis to see what it was; then he takes his beanie off, freeing his curly brown hair, long to his ears, a bit flattened by it.

Louis waits a couple of bits, trying to think about something ironic to say back, but before he can think about it Harry blurts out: “I’m a physiotherapist!”

Louis remains interdict for a second. “Was… was that a marketing strategy?” he feels obliged to ask.

Harry rolls his eyes, still grinning: “Told you it was _ironic_.”

There’s something about this curly-haired boy who offers coffee to strangers that’s just so _endearing_ to Louis: the suffocating weight on his chest hasn’t disappeared and neither has his sadness, but this guy who’s sitting in front of him, dimpled-cheeked, bubbly and confident, with bright eyes and cherry pink lips, is making him feel nice for the first time in days.

“No for real, is business going slow?” he reiterates, just because he’s having a little fun and it seems like Harry doesn’t mind banter.

“Awww come on! I seriously, genuinely-”

“Honestly?”

“_Honestly_ didn’t see you there! I had just turned the corner and you burst out of the cars, and,” he shrugs. “Here we are.”

Louis nearly asks him if _that_ was the true strategy, when he’s interrupted by the lilac haired girl with their orders, as smiley as before. He as to mentally thank her for it, because he can’t believe himself. _Flirting?_ That’s something he didn’t expect from himself. They both thank her and Louis goes straight to hold his cup of tea in his frozen hands: he still hasn’t taken off a single piece of clothing, not even his scarf or his gloves, because the long argument they had outside in the wind made him completely frosty.

Harry does the same as him but takes his gloves off first, revealing peach painted nails, a bit chipped around the edges. He takes a sip of his drink, clearly pleased about it, and then asks:

“So, Louis, how long have you been living here?”

“Just three months.” He resettles his position and continues: “I moved here in early September, for work.” He’s done with his answer, but Harry nods at him to continue. He looks genuinely interested in what Louis has to say, and Louis isn’t very used to that anymore, so it takes him a moment to go on:

“The publishing house for which I worked in London had opened new offices in his seat here, and they needed a publisher for those. For me it would have been a promotion to became one, so… I just moved.” It hasn’t been as simple as that, a good part of his certainties went upside down for this, but this is not the time nor the place to discuss that.

Louis takes a sip of his tea, pleased to find it strong and bitter just like how he likes it. He sets the mug down and adds to it a splash of milk: when he tastes it again, it’s perfect.

“And also for Amsterdam, right? How much are you enjoying the city?” Asking this, Harry’s smiles and his eyes twinkle, like he’s a fictional character in a cartoon and all the rest of the world is confined in this dusty reality. Harry loves pretentious coffeeshop and weird drinks, has painted nails, so it’s obvious that he loves Amsterdam too, and sees it as the epitome of freedom, art and perdition (in a poetic way).

Louis knows that Harry’s expecting him to wax poetic shit about this city so he can join him, and feels just the tiniest bit of guilt to crush that glint: “I mean… what can I say.”

As he was expecting (and hoping), Harry settles down his cup, shock written all over his features. “What?!” he exclaims. Oh boy, Louis’ going to have some fun.

“I… definitely do not love it,” he shoots back, the hint of a laugh clear in his voice but trying to mask it. “I wouldn’t go as far as saying that I hate it. But it’s not my favourite city, nor I’d considerate it the most beautiful or entertaining one I’ve ever been to.”

That last thing is a lie: ‘Dam hasn’t been fun because of his approach to it, and hasn’t been beautiful because he can’t see that anymore.

“But how… like what,” Harry is so shocked he’s having trouble responding to the _attack_ Louis launched him. “I don’t understand, how can you not love it? Or at least like it?” His eyes are open wide, and it takes a second for Louis to realise how much he resembles a frog with this expression.

Louis wriggles on his chair again and finally decides to take off his scarf and jacket, taking his time to answer such an innocent question.

“I don’t know either,” he says honestly. “But like, it rains so much-”

“You worked in _London_.”

“Yeah, true, but it’s different here? Everything’s so grey and heavy here, and the city centre is totally unlivable-”

“Okay, that’s true.”

“And so often I have the impression that just tourists are here, and they’re totally _animals_. They think this is their playground-”

“They’re always in the middle of the bicycle lane,” Harry adds with a _wink_.

Louis just snorts and continues: “Yeah, that, too, but they seriously have absolutely no respect for this city, this is not even a city for them. It’s their paradise for the weekend, and then they go home a leave a mess.” He doesn’t want to think about himself at eighteen, being in love with life and doing just that. He’s making circles with his spoon in the tea, watching both the swirl and Harry, who’s nodding seriously in front of him. Louis doesn’t feel amused anymore, he’s just tired again; even Harry has toned down his reactions.

“I don’t know, I feel like an old man to say all of this. I know this is, like, the world capital of entertainment, but maybe I just don’t see the appeal of it anymore. To be honest, I think that I’ll wait for my contract to end, then I’ll ask to be moved back to London or Manchester,” Louis adds, surprising himself with his honesty. “Like, I had my experience to work abroad, but I miss my family too much, you know? And, I don’t know, but... I can’t see my future here. I can’t be this distant from them.”

Harry’s shock has sobered up during Louis’ explanation, seeming to agree with what he was saying. After he has finished, he scots over with his chair, frowning.

“I mean, of course I get that if you wanna be near your family, you totally should, but… every metropolis is chaotic, I mean… wasn’t London a lot worse? And you wanna go back there? Like, that city is so big compared to this one,” he sounds serious, like he’s giving a real consideration about everything Louis said.

Harry can’t know it, but he really hit a sore nerve there: luckily for Louis, he was expecting this question, so he’s quick to answer: “Yeah, absolutely, London was a nightmare most of the time. But London’s so big, you can always find a spot that feels just _yours_. I don’t know, maybe I haven’t found mine here yet.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal at all, careful to not look him directly in his eyes: he has no idea of how transparent he has become.

He didn’t say, _I had my family, all my friends and a boyfriend back there_.

He didn’t say, _I really thought he was the one_.

A sad smile appears for a second on the corner of Harry’s mouth, making his dimple pop for just a moment: as rapid as the expression came, it’s gone again, so quickly Louis thinks that maybe he imagined it.

Harry’s replay comes just some moments later: “But how can you not see the magic of it? Despite all of that?” he doesn’t sound as sad as before, but still pretty surprised.

“I guess you really love this city, right?” Louis smiles tiredly behind his cup, ignoring the question. He wishes he could love ‘Dam again.

“Of course I do,” he replays, completely honest.

“And what do you love about it?” he wants to listen through the eyes’ of this dreamer what he cannot see anymore.

“This city…” Harry leans on the back of the chair, looking outside for a moment and taking his cup up. “Is magical. That’s the only word that can describe it. it’s impossible to get bored here, there’s so much to visit, to explore, not just the ordinary places or pubs but also… there are so many experiences you can have here.”

“You’re not from here either, are you?” It’s completely obvious, but Louis feels he can see right through him, like can see himself of some years ago in Harry, convinced he had found El Dorado here, promising to himself he would come back here as many times as possible.

He’s exhausted.

Harry just rolls his eyes at that, but doesn’t look annoyed. “What made you think that?”

“You’re so stricken about the big city, like, when I went to Manchester for Uni it felt the same, it was crazy to have more than three pubs to choose from.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry’s nodding despite himself, serious. “But it’s not just that. Living here is so different from what I’m used to, and of course to be always around so many people from all over the world is new and exciting, but… there’s a vibe here. There’s this atmosphere I’ve never felt anywhere else, the air is… electric? I moved here nearly eight months ago but I still feel like I’m in a dream, like I’m living inside a bubble where nothing bad can touch me, and even if it does, ‘Dam will fix it.”

_That’s a distraction, not a healing process_, Louis thinks_, _but doesn’t say anything.

“And it’s so beautiful, like aesthetically speaking. I still take walks around, observing the buildings, the flowers that are everywhere, the little shops. They’re all so different and unique.” He takes another sip of his latte. “I was actually going to do that, this morning.”

It really hits Louis how genuine and honest this guy is; he cannot agree to his passion for the city, but it’s impossible to not appreciate the love he has for everything that surrounds him, clear in his kindness, in his big smiles, in the pictures he has been snapping at everything he has found pretty so far, in the tea he’s offering to a total stranger.

“You were going around in the city just for… have a walk? Looking at the streets?” the smile in his voice is clear even for himself.

“I told you,” Harry continues, smiling back and looking for a second at the city outside, rosy again on the apple of his cheeks. “This city is so, so beautiful, and people are so… chill? Here nobody cares about anything you do, it’s so _freeing_. I didn’t live in, like, a village, but everything was toned down there. Here you can just _be, _as loud as you are.”

Louis feels so nostalgic to hear him saying all this, but there’s also something in Harry’s words, a pain underneath all this obsession with freedom and seeing this city as the embodiment of salvation. Louis wonders to himself if Harry too is healing from something, but quickly drives away the thought: everyone is healing from something. He shouldn’t wonder about a stranger’s pain.

He just smiles back at him, taking his time with his tea in hand.

“That’s totally true,” he ends up saying. “I felt that when I moved to Manchester, and even more when I was in London. You feel so… unbothered, like no one’s watching you.”

“Yeah, that, too.” Harry immediately agrees. “I’ve always felt like I owe something to others, or the weight of their expectations on me. Here, it’s just me and the people I have decided to include, and I feel… truly independent, for the first time.”

Louis ponders about how much he misses that feeling, and how absurd that is: on one hand, it’s amazing to live in a city big enough where no one will remember you. Anonymity is comforting. But on the other, there’s no sense of community: you can sharply feel how alone you are, how if you don’t know anyone personally anything could happen to you, and no one would know.

London is much bigger than Amsterdam, but here that feeling is amplified: he had David and his friends back there, and he’s completely alone now.

They change the topic after that, both feeling the gap between their different points of view and neither of them wanting to change the other’s. The conversation goes quickly to Harry’s job (_“so you give professional massages, that’s what you do, right?”_; _“Absolutely, my friends love me so. What about you? You’re paid to read, aren’t you?”_) and then to books they’ve read recently and events they’ve been to lately (Harry talks about them, Louis just nods and throws some comment here and there). Harry talks a perfect English, like any other young Dutchman Louis has met so far, so the language barrier is not existent.

They go on and go chatting, losing the track of time, without having any dull moment of silence between them. Louis can’t believe he nearly refuted having tea with such a pleasant company: Harry is so unique, and Louis’ is sure he has never met someone like him. There’s this endearing oddness about him, in the way he always has some anecdote to tell, in his mannerism sometimes exaggerated or the way he just knows so many little things about this city, his job, or just straight up trivial facts.

There’s something about him that Louis would describe as innocence: how he’s always ready to listen patiently to Louis, even when his pauses are longer than his actual sentences; or how he widens his eyes and then laughs at the rubbish Louis says, always sincere.

Louis’ surprised to learn how Harry is just a couple of years younger than him. He can’t believe it because in his eyes the gap between the two of them is too large to be filled in so little time; but on the other hand, in a weird way, understandable just by Louis, it’s the only age gap that would have made sense. He remembers how he was two years ago, still joking with his mum, his relationship with David stronger than ever, the youngest in his team at the publishing house: simply on the top of the world. It really took just some weeks to crush it all. And to get back on his feet after that is something he’s still managing to do now.

Louis wonders how it is possible that this world hasn’t destroyed such a lovely person, or if he did, how did Harry become again so graceful (and, is it possible for it to happen to Louis, too?). He hasn’t said a single bad word about anything in all the sentences has spoken: even when Louis briefly mentioned how his team isn’t that tight, that they won’t celebrate the publication together, he just joked about how Louis is better off like this, because he just needed this tea more than anything else, all of this with an exaggerate a wink that ends up being much goofier than what Harry had intended; which of course make Louis endlessly endeared.

The only thing that makes them stop for a moment is a loud thunder: both of them turn to the window, as if they could actually see something going on. The street outside looks just life before: the wind messes up the crown of the trees outside and the few people who are passing by are muffled with layers of clothes, their shoulders up to their ears; but now the sky has assumed a menacing, plumbeous colour.

“It was supposed to snow today,” Louis comments, more to himself than to Harry.

“I really, really hope it doesn’t,” Harry says still looking outside, like he could stop the rain and the snow if he concentrates hard enough.

“You don’t like snow?” Louis feels he has to ask. Now that he thinks about it, to him Harry looks like someone who would love snow. He can see him before himself, giggling in the white like he has done every time Louis has teased him a bit and snapping pictures at everything.

“Oh no, I do,” Louis mentally pats himself on the back for being such a good observer. “It’s just, there’s this manifestation on Sunday where I really want to go, and snow may not be ideal, you know?” He ends looking right at Louis.

The light that comes from the windows to his left lights up his face in a beautiful way: the shadows cast on Harry’s right side of the face are soft and defined, and every time he moves they dance on him. His eyes are green, so green, like nothing Louis has never seen before, and they shine every time Harry’s enthusiasm comes forward.

Harry is so objectively beautiful Louis doesn’t know how he has been talking to him for nearly two hours without neither flirting nor blushing at everything he said. And it’s not just his physical appearance: in this short period of time Louis had a glimpse of how smart and interesting he is, the ductile knowledge he has, the random quotes he pulls out, never looking pretentious but always with that earnest beam in his eyes.

He really must feel even worse than imagined.

“What manifestation?” He has to ask, if anything to distract himself from staring at how his dark curls frame his face.

“Oh, it’s the one for the elimination of-”

“Violence against women?” they end together, Louis asking and Harry affirming.

“Yeah,” Harry’s dimples are out, and Louis feels a spontaneous smile stretching back at him. “It’s on the 25th of November, so yeah, this Sunday.”

Because of course Harry is also a feminist who goes on manifestations on his own.

“Yeah, yeah, I know it,” Louis replays. “I’ve thought about going, too.”

“And then what happened?” Harry asks behind his tilted cup, while he’s trying to get the lasts drops of his drink out: they’ve been here for a while now, and even if they both nursed their drinks to make last as long as possible, they’ve come to an end. There’s no rush though, the only four other clients are scattered in the small café on their laptops and the only girl working has been checking her phone for the past twenty minutes.

“What, sorry?”

“Oh, no, it’s just that you said _‘I’ve thought of it’_, like something had happened and now you can’t go anymore.” He sets his cup down again, defeated: his latte is definitively finished.

“No, I just meant that I thought about it but made no actual decision if going or not.” To be more precise, Louis would love to go: he had participated in all of those when he used to work in London, and even before, when he went to Uni in Manchester. He always went with David, to every single one of them: sometimes just them two, some others joined by their friends or his sisters.

He just doesn’t know how well he could do, going alone for the first time in years.

Harry lowers his sight for a moment, taking time, and then responds: “Well, I’m going for sure. Have my sign already and all of that. If you don’t know anyone else, maybe we could go together?” He’s cautious with his words, as if he doesn’t want to pressure the matter at all, just like when he offered Louis’ coffee.

In a way, Louis kind of expected it. Harry’s polite and helpful, but he also has seen how he looks at him when he thinks Louis won’t notice, like before, when Louis had to check his notification because he heard his e-mails’ tone. Maybe he’s imagining it, given how their first impression of each other’s wasn’t ideal and how Louis’ dark circles and flat tone aren’t as sexy as one could think, or maybe he’s not, because Harry has been laughing about everything Louis said, even when it was clearly not that funny.

Either way, it doesn’t matter as much as it could. Louis doesn’t care and he’s not looking for anything, not right now.

The idea of even more socialization pressures him, but he’s even more scared at thought of going home and not be able to spend with his friends and family, after so much time spent like a hermit. He feels the enervating quietness and the drowning darkness closing upon him at the thought. Maybe this could be a way for him to learn how to make friends again, so when he finally goes back to Doncaster it won’t be a complete disaster.

“That’s actually a really good idea,” he finds himself responding. “I really want to go and I don’t want to waste this opportunity just because I _may_ not feel up for it.” Louis knows the version of himself of the past months and knows he wouldn’t have gone, point blank: he would have found some excuse to remain trapped in his flat and becoming even duller than before.

It’s not like it would have been the first time.

As he expected it, Harry’s smile becomes even bigger, satisfaction written all over his face. “Well, in that case, maybe we should exchange numbers? Just so we can decide a meeting point and, like, the time for it.”

“A rendezvous point, of course,” Louis teases him and takes his phone out. Once they’re done, he asks, curious: “You’ve already done your sign? What does it say?”

“I have a picture!” Harry exclaims, like he’s been waiting for this moment.

_Of course you do_, Louis thinks: as he can see on Harry’s screen, while he searches for what he needs, Harry has thousands of colourful pictures in his gallery. It takes a bit before he founds it, and when he does, he flips his phone for Louis to see: it’s a simple sign, white background with a black, with neat writing that says: _feminism is the radical notion that women are people_.

“Good quote, I like it.” He smiles again at him. “I’ll have to make one, too.” He ponders out loud, even though he already knows what he will bring: a simple quote but his favourite, the sign he draws every year.

Harry beams back at him and turns his phone back to himself; when he sees the screen, his expression changes a bit.

“It’s already half past noon,” he says, pouting. “I’ve told my flatmate to have lunch together this morning.” He admits, reluctant.

“Well…” Louis drags the syllable a second too long, waiting for Harry to say more. When he doesn’t Louis continues: “Should we pay and go?” he offers.

“Yeah, yeah we should.” Harry’s pout doesn’t go away, and Louis realises that maybe this isn’t the solution he was going for. Well, alas, what can he do.

Harry ends up paying for both of them despite Louis’ loud protests (_“I’ve told you I was offering you coffee, why are you resisting me”_), and before he knows they’ve already parted, Harry on his bike speeding like a lighting down the streets.

Louis watches him rapidly disappear, swallowed up by the buildings, and goes back to his flat with a weird but pleasant sparkle in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mierenneuker: this just means nitpicker, but can be literally translated with ‘thrusting ants’ (or even, ‘fucking ants’) (and it’s probably the best Dutch word I’ve discovered)  
Hey, hey? Gaat het wel goed? Vertel me alsjeblieft dat je in orde bent. Vertel me alsjeblieft iets: Are you okay? Please tell me that you are fine. Please tell me anything at all  
Verplaats niet als je gewond bent! Wil je wat water?: don’t move if you are injured! Do you want some water?  
Begrijp jij mij? Spreek je Nederlands?: do you understand me? Do you speak Dutch??  
Laten we gaan: let’s go  
In deze richting!: in this direction  
****  
This first chapter is probably the one that took the longest to write. I probably already had the feeling this wasn’t going to end soon lol  
As you (may) have seen, the name of the chapters are the days they are set in: I’ll try (keyword here, exams are coming) to post each chapter on the pertinent day, so next one will be on the 23rd of November (ecc ecc)  
  
Heyyy if you liked it pls consider letting me know? Comments are the greatest gift on this planet, I’m honestly very vulnerable right now so please lol writing this really felt like giving birth to so many emotions and feelings I had
> 
> If you wanna say hi, [ this is my tumblr ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/), here is the[ fic post ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/post/625001364010024960/amsterdam-with-you), and if you’re interested in seeing the meltdowns I had during the months about this orrrr everything I’ve rebblogged about the #aes of this fic, [ look at my ‘awy’ tag on my tumblr](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/tagged/awy)  
See ya soon!


	2. 23rd - 26th of November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! First thing first, I want to thank anyone who took their time with this fic, thank you all so much :)  
I should've probably divided this in two chapter bc this is a 16k monstrosity but alas it is here now  
The only warning I have for this chapter is the child's illness one toward the beginning, but it’s very brief (also, loads and loads of feelings. This one is a rollercoaster)  
Okay, I’ll leave you with it!

The following couple of days passes for Louis in a whirl of phone calls and work, which he doesn’t mind at all. After the clash with Harry he finally had his nap, a long one, without any alarms. He had woken up feeling dizzy and confused, but overall more hopeful and rested than before, and he had spent the whole afternoon replying to emails, keeping up with the various projects of the publishing house and checking editorial events for the next few days.

In a spur of courage mixed with recklessness, he had decided to do something he never thought he could be capable of: he sent the PDF of _Lost In Japan_ to the Boekenweek’s application form without any consent given by Dael or anyone else of the publishing house. He knows how good and how full of potential the book and Shawn are; it would be a shame to waste all of that for _laziness_.

He’ll have a lot of explanation to do when the book will be accepted for the event, but he’s ready for that: he’s ready to defend himself and his efforts. He knows his value.

In the late afternoon he calls Liam again, checking on him first: just when he has the assurance that Kai was up and distracted with Meli he dares to give him a ring.

“Oioooiii,” Louis greets Liam’s happy, close face trough FaceTime.

“Hi Lou,” Liam replays, all smiles and crinkles by his eyes. “Do you feel better now?”

Louis nearly asks him _why, what do you mean_, before he remembers how that very morning he nearly had a meltdown on the phone with him. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s okay,” he says, readjusting his position to hold the phone better. “The rest of the day was so much better. I had like, an endless nap. Feeling recharged.”

“Aw, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear!” Liam exclaim, genuinely happy about it. He’s always so expressive and real, one of those people who just can’t lie, because their face talks louder than them. “So, what’s the plan now? What do you have to do?”

“Liaaaamm,” Louis whines. “Let’s not talk about work, okay? Like, who cares-”

“You care,” Liam interrupts him. “You care way too much.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m letting you out of this convo. Let me see my little boy, c’mon.”

“You mean me? I’m right here, darling.”

Louis just rolls his eyes at him. “How is he? Is he sleeping well? Teething well?”

“Oh, he’s sleeping alright,” Liam replays, getting up from where he was sitting in his kitchen. “For those three hours straight he can get, at least. So me and Meli are the ones who can’t close an eye for more than that. Is it ever gonna stop?” he asks, walking down the corridor.

“I’m afraid it depends on the child lad, I remember that Lottie and Fizzy started sleeping regularly at like, six years old-”

“_Oh my god_.”

“But hey, the twins never had this problem. Like, at all.”

“Ok, that comforts me a little. Hey, love?” he opens his bedroom door, where Meli and Kai are playing. “Can I steal Wonderboy from you for a bit? Louis wants to say _hiiii,_” he adds, tilting the phone to let Louis see the child: he’s sitting on the ground like proper a grown-up, and Louis feels instantly a thousand times better.

“Hiiii Kaiiii,” Louis says immediately. Kai’s dark curls are getting long, nearly covering parts of his face, but at the sound of his father entering the room he raises his head and Louis can see his sweet little face.

“Yeah, sure,” Meli replays, getting up with Kai in her arms. “Hi Louis, how are you?” she asks, smiling at him. “Look love, there’s uncle Lou on the phone,” she holds Kai’s hand to make him salute the little Louis in the screen.

“I’m wonderful now,” he says sincerely. “Kai, love, you’ve gotten so big!” he says to the screen, widening his eyes. Kai just laughs at him and hides in the nook of her mom’s neck.

“I’m gonna lay down for a bit, love. Then we have to think about dinner, okay?” Meli says to Liam, passing the child to him.

“Yeah, I’ll do it, okay? Don’t worry about it.” Liam says, holding their child and kissing him on the side of his head, like an instinct. Meli walks out of the room, leaving the boys alone.

“Oh my my Kai, you’re so big and strong,” Louis continues, amazed by how different this tiny child looks every time he sees him again. Liam blows a raspberry on his neck, and he laughs again.

“Don’t tell _me_,” Liam says. “I can’t believe he already has teeth. He was born, like, yesterday.” He smiles at him, partially covered by him, his eyes shining with love and pride.

And that, that’s all Louis wants. A family, too many babies, making dinner for someone else even if you’re tired, because you know they are tired as well and you would do anything for them.

They keep chatting all together, Louis keeping on making silly faces at him, making him laugh and laugh, and they keep on going until it was dinner time for Kai, and Meli comes to take him with her again.

Alone, the two friends start talking about more personal stuff, like their families and recent events in their lives; Liam is happy to tell Louis that between Meli and him everything is fine, they hadn’t had another discussion after that ugly one in October, and that Kai is as healthy as he can be, no signs anymore of those scary, dark water bubbles that used to appear in his brain scans. God, those were cruel, frightful days, and Louis feels so relieved those have passed every time he thinks about it.

Before Kai was born Liam and Meli were told he may have bear complications regarding his brain and cognitive faculties because of those water bubbles. But after some dreadful weeks, they start to get reabsorbed, and Kai was born healthy, happy and unaware of the many nights Liam had sobbed on Louis’ lap, as he should be.

Every time Louis sees him now, he sees a tiny miracle and a giant grace that was given to them, wrapped preciously in those beautiful dark curls and curious eyes.

He keeps talking until Louis gets up from the couch to go to the kitchen _‘cause, y’know, no one will make him dinner, that’s for sure_, and there Liam interrupts himself.

“Lou, bro, are you alright?” he asks, serious.

The change of his tone was sudden enough to catch Louis off guard. “… Yes?”

“It’s just, you’re moving all funny. Are you limping?”

_Since when Liam’s so observant_, Louis broods. “Yeah, yeah, no biggie, I twisted my ankle on the way back home.” He’s _lying_, why the fuck is he lying?!

“You gotta be careful, y’know-”

“Don’t you dare-”

“You’re getting old and all that, your bones aren’t gonna sustain you for long if you continue like this-”

“Yeah? And how many times have _I_ broke a bone, Mister ‘_I’ll jump head first from this cliff, ooh, it looks so nice, I have to dive_’?”

“I got you scared to death,” Liam just laughs.

“Wanker,” Louis snorts, but smiles immediately after. “Oi, wanna know something?”

Liam just shrugs, nodding.

“I sent the book to the fair without saying anything to Dael. ‘ve decided I love it more than I hate arguing with her.”

“Lou! What the fuck mate, she’ll eat you alive,” Liam says, laughing.

“Yeah, but do I care? Abso-fucking-lutely not,” Louis replays, laughing with Liam.

“You’re still a child, you act all tough but-”

“Oi, fuck off mate,” he says affectionally. He checks the time in the top right corner of the screen and feels the need to inform his friend: “Listen Payno, ‘s not like I want to hang up on you or anything, but you said to the lovely Meli you were gonna make dinner and you’re still here making me mad, lad.”

“Shit, you’re right,” Liam’s face changes expression instantly. “Gotta go. Call soon, alright? Sooner than last time.”

“Of course,” Louis says, swallowing. “Bye, give a kiss to everyone, okay?”

“Sure thing. Have a good night, Lou.”

They hung up and Louis’ left alone with the mystery of _why the hell he lied to Liam_.

Maybe he felt scared of giving too much meaning to something as simple as meeting someone.

Maybe because he knew the fervour he was ready to imprint in the conversation and felt ridiculous for it. Harry is just a guy who hit him with his bike, no big deal at all. He doesn’t need to shout about it left and right. He had met so many interesting people in his life, and it’s not like he had needed to create a moment to share every single one of those stories on the phone with his best friend.

But there was something more: under all of this, he was sure he could never depict Harry well enough to do him justice. It was a combination of his kindness and frankness, of the light behind his eyes and the sighs he had made when talking about his found freedom.

This frustrates him even more because he doesn’t understand his indecision at all: if he doesn’t care as much as he wanted to believe, why couldn’t he just tell Liam? Louis felt like the moment wasn’t worthy of telling everything that happened that morning. _Worth of what?_ Why was he keeping this to himself?

He shakes himself, ready to continue his round of phone calls. He’ll have his dinner later.

After Liam, he was onto his sisters: it was already evening so he had called Dan first, to give a quick greets to the smaller twins before bed; then, glad that it was Friday night, the start of the weekend, he just face-timed Lottie, sure to find around her the rest of the family. Sure enough, his call was answered by five smiley faces, Mark included.

They started talking to him altogether, with the overwhelming volume and energy Louis had missed so much. After the general updating from everyone, each of them stole Lottie’s phone to have a more private conversation with him. Louis hadn’t felt that genuine, warm feeling of being loved in so much time.

In the end the call lasted for hours, but when he hung up, with his eyes and his ears fried, the hole in his chest had felt significantly smaller and the days until his flight back home more bearable.

He then replied to the neglected text he had received in the last days, especially those from the numerous and chatty group chats he had with his Uni and childhood friends.

He had left the Shawn Problem (both for the author and the physical copy of the book) for the next morning. He had called Shawn first, sure to find him as excited as him: when he answered the phone, he confessed he had been waiting for this call for days.

Louis has explained to him, following Liam’s advice the best he could, that he had done everything he could to make the book similar to what Shawn had envisioned; still, some things were different, which was totally normal, and he assured him that if on Monday he was going to see something not of his taste, even the smaller detail, he could express any change he wanted because they were all there working for him.

Ok, that was a bit of a lie: the book had to be published soon, due to the marketing timing with Christmas and all those things Louis knew just from a theoretical point of view, so there may not be enough time to make another test copy. Still, Shawn was so shy, nearly anxious sometimes, that Louis always worried he didn’t stand up for himself enough.

He knew the word for this was _projecting_, because he misses having people leaning on him and his sibling to protect, but that never stopped him from wanting the best for the young author.

But, as Louis was imagining, Shawn assured him that the test copy was probably perfect and told him for the umpteenth time how excited and grateful he was and thanked him profusely.

Louis hanged up with another reminder of how, even if he was the only one actually caring for the technicality of his work, there’s at least another person who was as delighted as him for the publication.

Calling a colleague for the favour was, on the other hand, quite a hard decision to make. In the end Louis opted for Sven, knowing his relaxed nature, and how he was nearly disinterested in his job, but never making that a problem for others.

Sven was one of the guys with who Louis had talked more, at the start of September: he has long blond hair, untamed, and Louis had joked once about how much he resembled _‘a hippie, free from the materialistic bounders of this world’_.

This simple comment threw them in a lot of animated conversations about what meant leading an ethical life nowadays, especially around the meat industry and the environment. Louis didn’t know much about all of these but could understand how innovative and sometimes radical Sven’s opinions were, to the point where he got interested in the topic and did some research of his own, to elaborate his own point of view.

At some point, Sven confessed that his biggest dream was to open a farm. A _farm_. Louis still remembers his surprise to hear that from a twenty-something-years-old in the twenty-first century, but Sven was all ready to explain all his reasons, tied to the CO2 reduction and to create an ethical way to produce and consume all his food and necessities.

After all of that Sven said how working there was something he was doing to put enough money aside, and how before he got into this ‘greener’ way of thinking media communications was his biggest passion.

Louis respected him a lot: he had never known someone so young and so sure about themselves without being arrogant, and understood his point of view, even conscious of how he could probably never do something as drastic as Sven’s plan for life intended to be.

Unfortunately, he and Sven never became friends: they founded they hadn’t a lot more to talk about, and when the first discrepancies begin to happen between Louis and the rest of the team, he didn’t completely pair up with them, always preferring to be left out of these dynamics, but for sure didn’t remain on Louis’ side. Louis would lie if he said that didn’t affect him at all, but he also knew he couldn’t blame him for it.

When Louis called him he accepted straight away, and Louis didn’t even have to negotiate with him or bribe him. He was just curious to know how Louis, among anyone else, ruined his copy. In the beginning Louis didn’t want to tell him either, just lie or invent something, but when he realised how absurd he was being he told Sven a simple, watered down version of the Friday morning’s events.

As Louis had imagined, his only comment was _‘aye, that sucks’_, and then he was ready to move on with his life.

One thing was his best mate, who would keep asking him questions in the next days and for sure would have wanted an update after Sunday; another one was one of his colleagues, who probably would forget about it in the next couple of hours.

In his _laissez-faire _attitude Louis felt for the first time, that Saturday morning, how little he actually cared about their work in general, and this embittered him a little; then, recognising how this was totally working in his favour and how Sven was being a perfect, easy solution, he just thanked him again and hang up the phone.

His Saturday passed in a blur of more phone calls, emails and work in general: but he really does appreciate having something to distract him, something to save him from his free time, because he had learnt that with too much time in his hands he always just ends dwelling on his loneliness or on how much he misses his old life.

It’s a miracle if he even remembers, in the early evening of that long day, to rush outside to the craft store to buy the largest piece of white carboard they had and two markers, one black and the other red. He also tried to find a pole or a rod or anything like that to glue his sign on, but found nothing.

But apart from that, he’s fully ready for tomorrow’s manifestation, right?

~*~

Wrong.

Sunday morning, when he texts Harry where and when to meet up, the only replay he gets it’s a short, unhelpful _Hi Louis! We should meet at Dam Square at 14, is it ok? _And since Louis doesn’t want to sound rude and say _Harry, that’s literally the beginning of the march, you should be a tiny bit more precise _he just texts back _That’s perfect, see you there._

So here he is, in the biggest square in Amsterdam, surrounded by an ocean of smiley faces, excited shouts and colourful signs. He has already walked around feeling helpless for a couple of minutes now, phone in hand and narrowed eyes, ready to spot a curly head (probably covered with a beanie) on a very tall boy (everyone is taller than him in this country, so that is also a useless clue). It hadn’t snowed in the end, so that at least was a plus.

He doesn’t know if he should text Harry first, even if he revealed himself as a very incompetent meeting organizer, or if should just wait to meet him by accident. Which, seriously, is never going to happen: the density of the crowd increase towards the centre of the square, but even near the buildings, where he is at the moment, walking around is becoming more and more difficult.

He sighs and leans on _Madame Tussauds, Wax Museum _entrance, unlocking his phone: it’s just 14:07. So many other people had chosen this building as a meeting point, and everyone around Louis’ is in the same condition: calling friends, trying to spot them in the crowd or greeting them. Louis’ ready to text him, but thankfully Harry precedes him by a second, choosing that moment to write to him:

_Hiiiii! I’m in front of the royal palace_  
_Wait, you know which building is the royal palace, right?_

As soon as he received the first texts, Louis has abandoned his spot next Madame Tussauds and had started to rapidly walk towards where Harry should be: luckily his left leg and hip don’t hurt at all anymore, which allow him to go as fast as he wants (no matter what his sisters say, he’s _just_ twenty-six, not _already _twenty-six). But all his pain hasn’t disappeared, it just migrated towards his shoulder and neck: he’s so excited and eager for tomorrow, he’s more than happy to be distracted for the afternoon.

He is not giving a single second to replay to any of Harry’s texts, because he keeps sending them at speedlight, so before he can say _ofc I know which one is it _Harry is already continuing:

_I mean it’s the big one_  
_Oc_  
_I’d say ‘you’ll spot me, I’m the one with the cyclamen scarf’ but everyone has cyclamen everything here_  
_It’s the colour of this year’s manifestation!!_  
_But I’m under the first arch of the palace from the left, if that could help_  
_Where are you?_

Louis, keeping dodging groups of teenagers, adults and even some families, sees that as his opportunity to say back: _don’t move, I’m near_, trying to not think how Harry just said _cyclamen_ in a casual conversation.

Looking around, Louis realises that Harry is right: everyone around him is wearing something in a cyclamen colour (_why couldn’t he just say purple_, he wonders for the second time), and so many people have the same signs: a cyclamen print of a group of diverse women holding hands with a blank space at the bottom, where they have written different things.

For whatever reason, the forever feeling of not belonging comes to slap him in the face. He didn’t know any of that, he’s dressed in black like any other day, he’s alone in an ocean of people where everyone seems to know each other, or at least where everyone knew how to dress for this occasion.

_Whatever_, he thinks. _Let’s find Harry._

The majority of the crowd has started to follow the march, down Rokin street, leaving behind some gaps which let Louis pass more quickly: it only takes him another couple of minutes before he’s in front of the palace.

He spots Harry immediately: he’s still under the first arch, with his big sign on a rod leaned on his shoulder and taking pictures of the crowd, smiling to himself. Something about his honest cheer, even when completely alone, make Louis feel content for a second, too. As expected, his flashy scarf is in full display, his curly hair hidden with a beanie, and he’s swimming in a coat so big Louis honestly can’t say if it’s a fashionable oversize or if it’s just too big for him.

“Harry!” he calls, getting nearer him.

Harry turns to him, and when he sees him his smile gets even bigger, making his dimples pop. “Louis!” he says, with a matching enthusiasm, walking towards him to meet him halfway. “You’re here!” his eyes go immediately to Louis’ sign, which is still held with one hand, low to the ground. “And you got a sign with you!” the thing seems to excite him.

“Yup,” Louis stops in his tracks and replays simply, lifting it up to his chest to make Harry see.

The chosen phrase is a simple but effective one, as well as a very important point of this manifestation: his sign says, _She’s someone<strike>’s sister/mother/daughter/wife,</strike>_ with the words crossed in red, so that only _She’s someone_ in readable.

“I love it,” he says, immediately. “Lift it high!”

“I’m afraid I can just do this,” Louis replays, raising his arm above his head and swinging it a bit. “I couldn’t find anything to make a pole, like you.” He adds, nodding to Harry’s sign.

“Oh, these things.” Harry lowers his sign and flips it to make Louis see the meeting point between the thin wooden sticks and the cardboard better. “I stole ‘em from my flatmate. They’re used to hung posters, actually.” Now that Louis can see them better, they look a bit too thin and on the verge of snapping.

“I… hope he won’t mind?”

“Nah, he won’t,” Harry assures him. “They were scattered in our flat for months. I did him a favour, if anything.”

Louis nods at him, and then looks at the enormous crowd that’s migrating toward the march.

“Shall we go?” he offers to Harry.

“Yes! Of course, let’s go.” Harry rests the sign on his shoulder again and places himself on Louis’ right, walking with him to follow the flow of the march.

“I went to a couple of marches before,” he says. “Usually we meet here and then go down Rokin street and end in Museumplein, there’s probably a stage there, and someone will like, give a speech.” Harry throws a glance in his direction. “Museumplein is, you know, where all the museums are? Like, Van Gogh’s?”

“Do you really think I don’t know where Van Gogh’s museum is?” Louis has to ask, uncertain to find Harry’s clarification funny or vaguely insulting.

“Hey, I can never know with you,” he smiles playfully, the glint in his eye back in place. “Can’t trust your taste, can’t trust your knowledge, you know.”

“Excuse you? My taste is flawless.” Louis has no idea of what possessed him to talk back like this, but he’s glad it did: if anything, because Harry makes a gleefully surprised face at him, his mouth opened in a smile and his eyes sparkling.

Now that Louis looks at him better, he notices how probably he has some kind of highlighter on. Human people don’t glow, not _that much_.

“Well, is your book-thing resolved, Mister Flawless Taste?”

“Yeah.” They walk past Madame Tussauds, ready to flow into the march with the rest of the protesters. “Called a bunch of people to finish the preparations. Called some more for other work stuff. Not the most glamourous weekend. What about yours?” He asks quickly, not wanting to talk even more about work, even in a situation like this. He had felt a shoot of pain trough the left side of his neck as soon as he mentioned it. God, he’s so stiff. He needs a new neck.

“A lady from my studio baked me _kruidnoten_! I guess I cracked her back right,” Harry says, adding an exaggerated wink and an overjoyed face, worthy of a happy child more than a grown man.

“She baked you what?” Louis hates how Harry’s expression is immediately robbed of its joy, but he really didn’t understand what he said.

“_Kruidnoten_,” he repeats, a little slower, with even less accent than before. At Louis’ lost expression, he gives out a long sigh and mumbles under his breath: “You come to here, to my country, you don’t even know the bakery goods…”

“Stop oppressing me, you,” Louis throws back.

“Me, oppressing _you_? In which language are we talking right now?” Harry full stops at that.

“Oi,” Louis starts without knowing what to say next. They blink to each other for a second. “Okay, you’ve got a point,” he concedes. They start walking again.

“But, like, do you know some Dutch? Or none at all?” Harry wonders.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Louis starts. “I can say the most basic stuff, like _hallo, mijn naam is Louis_, or useless stuff like,” he has to take a breath for that: “_hun kinderen houden van paarden _– don’t ask me why, that’s everything Duolingo taught me – but no, I’m useless otherwise.”

“But… haven’t you lived here for like, three months?” Harry’s confusion is rather fair, but what can he do.

“Yeah,” Louis sighs. “But you see, everyone at work speaks English, the work in itself is in English, and absolutely anyone I’ve met speaks it fluently so… I don’t feel, like, motivated? To study Dutch seriously. Also!” he remembers. “Once I tried to speak Dutch to a colleague and he kept answering me in English! I just gave out, at that point.”

“Yeah, because your pronunciation is all terrible,” Harry snorts. “Truly, a tragedy.”

Louis just rolls his eyes back at him. It’s not his fault if the vowels in this language make absolutely no sense.

“So, when you go out with people here, you all talk in English? Like, all the time?” Harry continues with the questions.

Louis doesn’t want to admit that he hasn’t actually gone out anywhere with his colleagues, even less made friends, so he just dodges it, saying: “Yeah, that’s what I- what we do. But… seriously, I don’t think that I’m missing out that much, like a chunk so big of socialization or whatever, ‘cause literally anyone talks English perfectly. You can live with no problems here without speaking one word of the native language. It’s just, the quality of living, more like? Like, the TV, or the chit-chat around coffee during the breaks at work, the ways of saying… and all that stuff when it’s clear something funny is happening but you have no clue. And you always have to ask for a translation, and it gets heavy easily. Like, to be the one who’s always saying, _‘what did they say?’_”

“I swear solemnly,” Harry says, turning to him, placing a hand on his heart. “That you can ask me whatever translation you want.” Before Louis can even say _thanks _he continues: “But in return, you have to learn Dutch even a little bit. It will do magic. And! It’s a hilarious language. Like,” he furrows his eyebrows for a second, and then he completely lights up and says: “_Ken je de mop van de mummie? Ingewikkeld hè?_”

Louis looks at him for a bit, waiting for a punchline of some sort, but when Harry remains expectant, he has to say: “Harry, you know that I have no clue of what you’ve said, right?”

“Oh! Yeah, umh, you see,” if Louis knew him a little better, he would have said that he was embarrassed. “It translates to: _‘have you ever heard of the joke about the mummy? Complicated isn’t it?’, _but the word ‘_ingewikkeld’_, which is _‘complicated’_, also means _‘wrapped’._” He gives Louis a huge open-mouth-smile.

And god, Louis never liked dad jokes, but seeing Harry so cheerful and proud of that awful joke makes him snorts and feeling a hint of softness in his heart.

“Harry, that was terrible,” he comments, but he knows his smile doesn’t match up to his words.

“And I take great pride in that,” he winks at Louis.

They get in the centre of the march, surrounded by loud music and even louder people. Everyone is shouting chorus or chatting, and so many people are dancing. They pass near a small circle of children jumping around and dancing to the loud music that comes from the amplifiers and they both coo at them at the same time, then look at each other and sharing a laugh.

Louis thinks for a moment about his Ernie and Dory, wondering what they could be up to. Maybe a nap, considering the hour. He wonders if someone of his friends is in the same march in London or Manchester and sends a quick text to Lottie and Fizzy with a picture of the banners in front of him.

In a sea of signs and banners, Louis spots one that he always sees in this type of marches, and points it out to Harry immediately:

“That’s one that I adore,” he says, tugging Harry’s elbow and pointing to a poster saying, _‘girls just wanna have fun-damental human rights’_. “Like, how genial is that?”

Harry nods instantly, saying back: “Love Cindy, love the irony of it.”

They continue like this, walking alongside the flow and pointing to each other different signs, commenting them or just for appreciation. Louis asks for a translation more than once and Harry always complies, never commenting on it anymore. They go on like this, at a slow, relaxed pace, chatting about what they see or in tranquil silence, enjoying the music and the chanting of chorus.

“Oh, that’s an _award for good boys_, if I’ve ever seen one.” Harry suddenly says, a hint of laugh clear in his voice, pointing at his right.

“A _what_?” Louis has to ask, turning to where Harry is pointing and trying to get what he’s saying.

“That one, the man with the round glasses and the leather jacket,” he whispers, in a fake secretive way, turning to face Louis better and pointing at someone behind them without even the decency to seem discreet.

Louis looks over his shoulder, scanning through the sea of signs and banners, until he sees someone who could be Harry’s defendant: a man holding a cartel saying _A man and a feminist? It’s possible, I’m here_.

“God, that’s an awful one,” he grimaces, feeling just queasy at the sight of someone so smug just for being a decent human being. “Like, can you really make all of this just about you? Awful.”

Harry just shrugs back, like he wants to say _what can you do_, and adds: “A man who’s ready to be praised? Who probably thinks they deserve a badge to be this great? A good boy, that’s it.”

“A good boy indeed. Ugh, you know what he’s missing? A neon arrow towards himself.”

“Don’t give him ideas, he wouldn’t even _get it_,” Harry snickers.

Their sneer is interrupted by a loud, distorted voice from the amplifiers: they both shut up and turn toward it; Louis can’t see anything (_“people in this country are so goddamned tall”_ he thinks for the hundredth time) but by Harry’s stance on his tiptoes he’d say he’s not the only one.

The voice continues and Harry renounces to allocate its source, going back on his feet.

“Someone’s giving a speech?” Louis guesses.

“Yeah, I think there’s a woman with a megaphone somewhere ahead, but I can’t see her. She’s saying…” Harry tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. “She’s happy and proud we’re here… We should be loud for those who can’t be… And we should protest even more for all the women who couldn’t come… For those who couldn’t because they’re not safe… for those who couldn’t afford it, I think she said? And for those” Harry takes a breath. “For those who are not here anymore.” In the last words Harry’s voice unexpectedly cracks, but he just raises a hand to his face and keeps looking ahead.

Louis ignores it, not wanting to make a big deal out of it, but he does grab Harry’s elbow to show some kind of support, still not looking at him.

_(Human contacts shouldn’t feel like an electric shock that shakes his whole body, but it does)_.

The crowd is cheering, shouting, singing, responding to the speech, and Louis and Harry remain for a beat silent in their own bubble, until Harry continues his translation:

“And she’s saying, umh… to believe women more… to give them support not just with words… that we need action,” he’s saying, slowly but confidently. “And that… we need to set good examples to the new generations, to assure women and everyone else have the best future possible… and that women can have the possibilities, I think? Yeah, the possibilities and the resources to do what they actually want.”

“This, this is so important.” Louis feels unable to not interrupt Harry when he hears what the man is saying. Harry turns to him, clearly interested in what Louis will say.

“Like, I don’t want to make this about me but-”

“Aren’t you too a good boy?” Harry asks with a hint of a smile. Louis still hasn’t let go of his elbow.

Louis just rolls his eyes at him and continues: “I have so many sisters, okay? And I do worry about them, I worry so much of what kind of example they could get from things like social media and stuff, so I always try to do my best and to set the highest bar for their expectations and stuff.”

“Yeah, like what they should expect from strangers, that kind of thing?”

“Yeah, exactly that,” Louis nods at him.

“I kinda get what you’re saying. I have one sister, and she’s older than me, but I’ll always feel like I should look out for her, even if she would laugh if she hears me saying this. And also I feel like I have the possibility and a bit of the responsibility to make her life easier, in a way?”

“Yeah, that too. It’s not a one side battle, isn’t it?”

Harry gives him a small, knowing smile. “It really isn’t.”

They remain silent for a second, surrender by the loud shouts and chorus of the crowd, but Harry’s quick to turn to Louis again and ask: “How many sisters is _‘so many sisters’_, by the way?”

Louis already feels the smile creeping upon his face at the opportunity of talking about them.

“Guess,” he replays.

Harry frowns. “Three.”

Louis snorts at that. “We were three like, fifteen years ago? A little more.”

“More!”

“I have five sisters-”

“_Five!_”

“- and one brother.”

Harry remains still for a moment, with his eyes full on glee and an overjoyed expression. “Seven babies! But that’s amazing.” He pauses for a second. “Oh wow, what are you, catholic?”

Louis’ so caught off guard by that he barks a burst of laughter, an open, deep one, like he hasn’t had in a while.

“Harry, what?” he’s still giggling. “No, just a lot of babies. My mum was for the big families, y’know? Also, two sets of twins help to get the numbers high.”

“_Two_? Set of _twins_?” Harry’s eyes are going to pop off his skulls if he doesn’t calm down. Louis’ having the time of his life. “But that’s incredible. So many babies,” he adds, his eyes twinkling.

Louis thinks for a moment about the dancing children they both cooed at not long ago. “I know, I love babies so much. I love _them_ so much. We were truly blessed,” he smiles at Harry.

“Yeah, still, can’t imagine. That must be a ton of responsibilities,” he says, starry eyed still.

“I don’t know, they’re angels. I’d say it’s just a lot of heartache now that I can’t see them as much,” he can’t help but add, his smile turning a bit sad.

“Are you going back home, for Christmas?” Harry asks, more softly now, knocking his shoulder into Louis’.

“Yeah, of course. Can’t wait to be back home, I miss them too much. What about you? You’ll be back in your town for the holidays?”

“Still haven’t decided, but, y’know, I have time to do so, so...” he shrugs, like he doesn’t care much about the topic.

After that, they keep walking in silence for a bit, until Louis hears again a chorus that was sung for the entire manifestation. People around him and Harry start chanting as well, and he turns to him to ask for the translation.

“It says… _‘A violent man it’s not ill, he’s the healthy son of patriarchy’,_ hey, it nearly rhymes even in English!”

“Yer a talent, Harry,” Louis says, trying to make the best impression of Hagrid that he can. Harry flashes a grin back at him, and goes back to chant it.

Louis bops with the rest of the crowd, trying to understand it word by word, but gives up pretty soon, as it is just too difficult to emulate. Instead he looks around, admiring the crowd, snapping some pictures with the intent to send them to Liam or Lottie later, enjoying the wind on his face and the soft light from the dark clouds above him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Louis sees a kid. With all the discretion he can muster, he turns slightly towards her, still walking alongside Harry. She can’t be older than eight, maybe nine years old, and she looks lost. Scared.

Instinctively Louis looks around her, to catch the sight of a parent or someone older, but no one is paying attention to her.

Something is very wrong.

She’s walking at the same pace as everyone else, but she keeps trying to look above the crowd, like she’s looking for someone. Her expression could seem neutral to someone who doesn’t know kids a lot, but Louis can read it in her eyes: she’s terrified and she’s trying to tell herself that everything will go alright soon, no need to worry, no need to make a scene. She’s tugging her braid, nervous.

Louis returns his glance in front of himself: they’re not at the end of the manifestation yet, and Harry on his right is still shouting the chorus about patriarchy. He tries to tell himself that everything is alright, that he’s probably overreacting, but when he turns around again and sees the little girl still alone, he knows he must do something.

“Harry,” he says, tugging his elbow. “Harry, something’s wrong.”

Harry turns around immediately, his glee sliding off his face. “What’s happening?”

“That girl,” Louis says, pointing her over his shoulder. “I think she’s lost. She looks scared.”

Harry searches her among the mass, and when he sees her, after some moments, his face turns from serious to confused.

“You sure? She seems alright,” he asks, biting his lip.

“Look around her,” Louis continues with more urgency, still holding Harry’s elbow. “She’s completely alone, no one is paying attention to her.”

Louis stares at Harry, who’s now looking around her, trying to catch the sight of an adult, until he sees his face change again, this time to set.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says, still turn to Louis, his eyes never leaving her. “We have to go to her.”

“Yes, okay.” Louis thinks quickly about what to do. “Listen, you talk to her, ask her if she’s got a phone or if she remembers someone’s number, then I call her parents or whatever, okay?” Harry’s nodding at every word Louis is saying, and they start to walk sideways to cut through the crowd, getting near her.

“Yes, yes, okay, I’ll go.” There’s a pure determination in his eyes, and he looks even a bit too serious when he leaves Louis’ side to walk straight to her.

“Be nice! You’re a stranger to her!” Louis calls behind him, hoping he can still hear him.

Harry walks up to the kid and asks her something in Dutch that Louis doesn’t catch. The girl stops immediately and for a second she looks much more scared than before: Louis knows that look, it’s the awareness of her façade not working. Having to admit that yeah, you’re lost, you’re alone, you’re scared.

He walks up to them, who have now stopped walking, and gives her his big brother smile: silly and friendly, hoping to put her at ease.

She looks at both of them with her eyes open wide, and then at the rest of the crowd again, like she’s trying to escape from them.

“Harry, take a step backward,” Louis whisper, doing the same. “She’s scared of us.”

Something seems to click in Harry: he crouches on the ground until they’re at the same eye level, and says something again, with an emphatic, exaggerated voice. At that, the girl fixes her eyes on him, furrows her eyebrows and looks offended, almost, and replays something that even Louis knows means _‘I’m not a kid, don’t talk to me like that’_.

Louis doesn’t even have to look at Harry’s face to know how much he’s smiling now.

Harry goes on, the goofiness in his voice toned down just a bit. He asks her a couple of questions, to which she replays in very short sentences, no longer looking around her but rather switching from Harry to Louis and back.

Harry says something more, pointing at Louis, who had remained standing beside them as an outsider until now; Louis, feeling called upon, smiles again. He doesn’t know if he did something wrong, if his face turned hostile without him noticing it, but when the little girl looks at him again tears start to gather in her eyes.

Louis feels sick to his stomach to see her sweet face so upset and, trying to maintain his voice as calm as possible, he asks Harry what happened.

“She said she doesn’t have a phone,” Harry replays, serious but still calm. He’s so, so good at this. “And she doesn’t remember any numbers of her family.”

“Who she came here with?” He asks him with the same easiness. His heart is beating furiously in his chest and he’s gripping onto his sign to not tremble. They have to do something _now_: the sunset is approaching, soon it will be dark.

Harry translate the question to her, who replays with the smallest voice, “_Met mijn mama”_. That’s clear as a day, Louis doesn’t even need the translation back, and asks again:

“Does she remember what she was wearing? If she had a sign? I’m gonna go and look for her.”

Harry nods at him once and translates back. This time the girl speaks slowly, concentrated like she’s trying to remember.

“She’s saying… She has a black coat…” Harry translates. Louis looks briefly around them: almost everyone has a black coat, _that won’t do it_. “She doesn’t have a sign… Her hair is tied…” Louis is on the verge of interrupting them to ask something more specific, when Harry says: “She has her umbrella… it’s green, it looks like a frog… She said she’s gonna have it open… if she gets lost… so she can find her.”

“Green frog umbrella. Awesome.” Louis feels a new rush of adrenaline shooting in his veins.

He has to go, go, _go_, and find the umbrella. The mum.

Everything is going to be alright.

He looks briefly around, and spots the entrance stairs of a house nearby, a couple of metres from which there’s a luminous sign for a vegan restaurant.

“What’s her name? And the mum’s?” is his last question, as he starts to look around them paying more attention.

Harry turns to her and Louis can hear her says, _“Eline, mijn mama heet Marie”_.

“Marie, Eline. Perfect. Go sit on those stairs, okay?” He orders, pointing at them. “I’ll go and meet you there. If I get lost or I can’t find her I’ll call you, okay?” Harry just nods at him at takes Louis’ sign with him, and before Louis can hear what he will say to Eline, he’s already in the crowd.

Green, he has to find green.

An umbrella, open above the crowd: he walks as fast as he can, dodging the protesters who are still singing something Louis doesn’t register.

Green.

He runs in front of the mass as much as he can, thinking just_ green, frog, umbrella_. If he can go near the start and then go backward in the march, he has more possibilities of finding her.

The road merges into a much narrower one, the density of the people is unreal, Louis has enough difficulty just for walking, but moving that much around is so challenging. But in some ways, slipping and sliding, he manages to walk a good piece of march ahead of where he, Harry and Eline were.

Her mum, _Marie_, Louis remembers, it’s more probable that’s behind here, not ahead, but he has to search the best he can.

Suddenly, he spots green.

It’s in front of him, and elbowing through the people he manages to get near the mark he saw, but now that he’s nearer he realises that what he saw was a sign, not an umbrella.

He stops, feeling his heart in his throat. Someone behind him crashes into him and he doesn’t even notice. His left side is numb from the pain, from his nape to his shoulder.

He has to calm down.

There are some priorities here: he can’t blow this up just because he’s emotional. He has to stop thinking about his own sisters, his babies, it wasn’t long ago that Daisy and Phoebe were that young, what if-

He has to stop.

The sun is already setting, which means he has maximum half an hour to find her. He closes his eyes and takes two deep breathes, and when he feels calmer he opens them again.

_Green. Frog. Umbrella._

He’s got this.

He turns around and starts walking against the current going to the centre of the flow. He walks slowly, scanning the crowd. He spots green another couple of times, but he recognizes those as signs before he can get his hopes high.

That way, now that he spots green again, he’s sure to have found it.

The umbrella is held high, and whoever has it it’s swinging it gently from side to side. It’s not far from him and right in the middle, just like him.

Louis cuts through the crowd rapidly, without noticing all the feet he’s stomping or if he’s hitting someone. _Priorities._

He walks up to the woman knowing he has a crazy expression on, but it’s nothing compared to hers: she’s scanning the crowd obsessively with her eyes wide open; her make-up is ruined, it’s obvious she had cried, and with the other hand she’s clutching her phone.

“Marie?” He asks, when they’re one in front of the other. The woman looks immediately at him, her eyes boring into his skull. “Are you Eline’s mom?” He asks again, praying every deity he knows to have found the right mum.

She opens her mouth in shock, her eyes get wet again; she nods mutely before she can find her voice to replay: “_Ja, ja, ik ben het, waar is zij?_”

The knot in Louis’ stomach becomes tighter.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, I only speak English, do you-”

“I said it’s me, where is she?” she interrupts him, forcefully. Her voice is so hoarse, it’s clear that she has shouted her daughter’s name for the past hour or so.

Relief hit Louis like a tsunami.

“Come with me,” Louis replays, passing near her and then walking straight ahead, back to where he has left Harry and the child. “She’s with a friend of mine, not far from here, like, 400 metres? In that direction.” He points the back of the march.

“Yes, oh, thank you.” She starts following him, sniffing with her nose, trying to stop crying, but it’s not working. “How’s she? I’m so so sorry, it’s just that there are so many people and-”

“Listen, do you want me to call her? So you can hear from her?” Louis doesn’t want to be rude, but this poor woman is so stressed that he’s worried about her. He doesn’t even want to think how terrifying it must be, to lose your child in such an immense crowd.

At that Marie nods again before she can say: “Yes, yes, let me call her.”

Louis nods one and takes his phone: they’re back on the wider street, and there’s enough space for them to get on the pavement and walk a bit faster than before.

Harry replays at the second ring.

“Harry, I found her, can you put Eline on the phone?”

“’Course, Lou.” The diminutive is registered by Louis’ brain _but it’s not time now_, he tells himself.

“_Hallo?” _Eline’s thin voice comes from the other end: it’s just a word, but she doesn’t sound scared or agitated anymore. Louis gives the phone to Marie without saying anything, and she grabs it like her life depends on it.

_“Lieverd? Ben jij dat?”_ Her voice is still anxious, but after a moment she lets out a shaky laugh and a few more tears, but she’s smiling again, so Louis knows he found the right pair of lost people.

Now that he’s sure of the pair, he leaves her his phone and starts walking even faster, ditching and avoid every large group of people, walking around every banner; he looks behind his shoulder every now and then to see if Marie is still behind him.

The path to get back to them is devious and long, since everyone is walking in their opposite direction, but when Louis finally spots the luminous sign of the restaurant, he knows they’re near.

“They’re sitting near that restaurant,” he says, turning to Marie and pointing at it. She nods, says something more on the phone and hangs up, returning it to Louis, who takes it with a smile. The street here is a lot larger than before, and she surpasses him going straight to the restaurant. He can see Harry and Eline from this distance, and it looks like they’re just chilling, like they’re friends; he sees Eline giving back the phone to Harry and then both of them laughing.

Louis jogs after her and watches the scene a few metres away: Marie runs to the stairs where Eline and Harry are sitting, and as soon as Eline turns away from the engrossing conversation she’s having with Harry, her mom picks her up, hugging her tight.

Louis feels his soul becoming soft at the sight, and goes to Harry to let them have their privacy. He throws a smile at him, with a look that carries a ‘_You okay? Is everything alright?’ _to which Harry smiles back, nodding, and then stands up beside him.

Marie turns to them, with her eyes wet and her smile full of gratitude, and says: “Thank you so much, I don’t know what I would’ve done, I just… I don’t know. Thank you.” She’s still shaking, and has her arm secured around Eline’s shoulder. Eline seems on the verge of crying as well, but holds up pretty well. She’s wrapped around her mum, with her face squished in her stomach.

Louis is sure that she’s doing so well because Harry’s a ray of sunshine and certainly made her feel at ease in a matter of seconds.

“We’re so glad we have found you,” Louis responds. The knot in his throat is gone, he feels as light as air. “The method with the umbrella was super smart, by the way. I’ll teach that to my sisters.” He offers, feeling like he can’t stop smiling even if he tried.

“I hoped to never have to use it, but I’m so glad it worked, it has been a hell of an hour,” she says patting the tears on her cheeks away. “We have to go now, right Eline? _Zeg dank aan de jongens,_” she says, petting her hair.

Eline smiles at Harry at that and says something that Louis doesn’t understand, to which Harry replies with a huge smile and a wink.

Marie looks interdict for a second for the switch of language but doesn’t ask about it. She thanks both of them again in English, and they start to walk away together, still hugging tightly like before.

The manifestation is still going, but Louis feels like it belongs to another universe by now: he hasn’t felt this tired in god knows how long, all his adrenaline is crushing and he’s just exhausted now. The chorus, the march, the colours are just background noise, the only things that exist right now are him and Harry, who just lived something that all the people marching in front of them will never know.

He needs a reconnaissance moment to think about what just happened and digest it; he probably will spend the evening talking to Daisy and Phoebe.

He turns to Harry, expecting to find him ready to go back to the march, or his usual cheerful self, but instead he has a vacant look, his eyes seem glazed, and he’s a lot paler than five minutes ago. His confusion doesn’t last long, sliding into concern when he sees that Harry is not moving at all: he’s not even looking at something material, he’s just staring ahead.

“Hey there,” he approaches him slowly, his voice soft, placing a hand on his arm. As soon as he touches him Harry collapses on him, nearly sending both to the ground. Louis readjusts their weight to both of his feet and secures his arm around Harry’s waist, his concerning just growing.

“Darling, why won’t we sit down for a moment?” the endearment slips out of his lips naturally, and he points with his head the stairs where he and Eline were waiting a few moments before. Without waiting for a verbal answer, he walks to the stairs carrying Harry over his shoulder, as if he had fainted.

Louis sits two steps above Harry on the stairs, to give him the opportunity to remain leaned on him if he wanted: Harry hadn’t even questioned their position, because as soon as they’re sitting he rests himself completely on Louis’ side, with his head on Louis’ chest.

Harry weights _so much_, but he also smells _so good_, like something sweet but also a lot more masculine than what Louis expected. The weight Louis now has on his chest triggers his sense of protection, and without even thinking about it he secures his arms around Harry, who still hasn’t said a word.

Louis runs a hand through Harry’s curls, the little ones that always escape from his beanies, around his neck.

“She’s alright,” Louis says, after a couple of moments of silence. “We found the mom, she’s alright. Everything is good.”

Harry is still upset, but the continuous motion of Louis’ rubs is slowly working: Louis can feel under his fingertips how his muscles are starting to relax.

“You were so good,” Harry finally says. “It took you like, twenty minutes to find her. And you were so chill with her mum. I haven’t said anything to her, maybe she’ll think I’m a weirdo.”

“Naaah,” Louis says, confidently. “You were the good one. Like, when we walked back to you and I saw her? She didn’t even look like the same child for how much she was smiling. You became friend with her like, instantly! What did you even talk about?” Of course Louis is curious about it, but more than anything he wants Harry to chill about the situation and recognize how both of them did a great job about it, managing to freak out just after resolving it.

Louis is tired and frantic as well, but the instinct of taking care of the others before him is always the strongest.

“I don’t even know… I asked her about what she was doing in school, and then we started talking about the manifestation, I asked her what she thought of it and if she had something cyclamen with her, and, she didn’t! Which, why, I was confused about it, but whatever. I told her I had matching nail polish for it,” Harry raises his hands to let Louis see: he had gloves on until now, and his hands are already red for the wind. The nail polish is a nice shade of deep purple, too dark to be considered cyclamen, but Louis is definitively not going there.

“Did she like it?” Louis asks, curious.

“I mean…”

“What? No way!” Louis interjects, like he _has to_ show support in every way to Harry at this moment. Also, he likes them for real.

He feels Harry smiles before he sees him: it’s a small one, but he had gained his colour back, and talking is soothing him.

“Yeah, she… She didn’t like the purple but said that she likes nail polish as well. Told me her mom sometimes paints her nails for her, that she’s better than her at it, so I told her she just had to practice it.”

“See? You were super good, you put her at ease. Also, I had the clearest demonstration of my life that I need to learn Dutch.”

Harry gives him another small smile and says nothing more. They remain like this, cuddling in silence on some stranger’s stairs, with the march still going on in the background. It’s nearly dark now and the wind is icy, but Harry on top of him is so warming and lovely that Louis doesn’t mind it.

Louis keeps rubbing Harry’s arm or caressing the small portion of his face exposed with the same gentle and slow movements. He’s doing it for himself as much as for Harry: the last hour has been… a lot. He’s so glad everything was fine in the end, but he can’t help but think about the disastrous ways it could have ended if he didn’t find Marie: would have they take Eline to a police station? Louis shudders at the thought. She was old enough to remember everything about it. It would have been traumatizing.

“I’m sorry if I seem so dramatic,” Harry suddenly says. “But… There’s this friend of mine, okay? She has a daughter, Lux, who’s like, a couple of years younger than Eline, and I babysat her ever since she was born and I used to see her almost every day back in my town and we were absolute best friends, and now since I moved I saw her a lot less and- I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about her in the same situation and I feel like shit for it.”

Harry says all of this in just one breath, like he wants to spit it out as quickly as possible. Like he’s ashamed for it and honestly, Louis gets it, he gets it so much, because he felt just the same.

“I know how you feel,” he says, tracing a long curl, talking slower than Harry’s did. He hopes he can infuse him with some of the calmness he feels now. “My sisters, you know? The older twins are some years older than her. I had this moment where I kept thinking about them instead of her and I panicked. I had to remind myself of the current situation, ‘cause I was too distracted. But we found them, she’s with her mum now, in a couple of weeks they’ll laugh about it.” More likely a couple of years or more, but that’s a white lie.

“And the best way to feel better now,” Louis continues. “Is to call her, Lux?” Harry nods. “Call her this evening and talk to her. You’ll feel a thousand times better.”

“I haven’t called her in so long,” Harry chokes out. “I went away from that town like I was going on a vacation, I said _goodbye_ to like, three people. Of course I told her I was going away, but I don’t think she got it, and every time I call her my heart breaks Lou, I miss her so much.”

Oh, Louis knows. How do you explain to two four-years-old their big brother is going to live hundreds of miles from them, and they’ll see him just once every couple of months? They’ve already lost their mum, they need their family there for them, not scattered around England and now around Europe as well.

“I went back there this summer just to visit her, I almost didn’t but I can’t just abandon her, you know?” Harry continues, sounding even more miserable. “They didn’t even look similar but I had this rush, like I had to protect her, and I remembered what it was like to spend so much time with her, and I just _left_ her.”

“Harry,” Louis’ voice now is so much serious than before. “You haven’t abandoned anybody. You’re an adult and you need to live your own life,” _at least, that’s what I try to tell myself_, he thinks. “You’re still her best friend in her heart. She just needs you to be more present for her, you know? And if you can’t go back there, just call her, or Facetime her, that works even better. But seriously, nothing’s set.”

Harry lowers his head; maybe he was too abrupt, maybe he was too sincere, or maybe he hasn’t got what Harry want to say: why did he run, why he doesn’t want to go back? But despite everything he needs to know this, because really, nothing is _gone_.

“Hey there, dear,” he says, after the silence from Harry’s part. He nudges his face gently with the back of his hand and continues, a lot softer than before: “It’s hard to keep all your relationship intact from a distance, I know. It’s hard when you have a full-time job, new friends and all the responsibilities of living alone to always find the time for the people you love the most. But a thing about those people is that they… they get it, okay? They know how much you still love them, despite the distance or the silences. You have to believe in them more than this.

“And I know the situation is different, because she’s just a baby, but… If you don’t have the time to call her every day, be sure that when you do, you’re present. Tell her what you saw that made you think of her, maybe text her mum if it’s easier, or send her some types of gifts if you can. You’re still her friend, I assure you.”

While Louis was talking, Harry had raised his head to look at him. The soft orange light from the streetlights makes him look like an oil painting of the baroque, all warm tones, delicate lines and strong bones. Or maybe it’s even just the dark curls, the clear eyes, the softness of his traits that make him look like a work of art.

Harry’s looking at him in the eyes, listening to every word.

“I’ll call her,” he says in the end, after moments of silence. “I’ll call her this evening.”

But instead of standing up he relaxes back on Louis’ chest. Louis, for his part, doesn’t have the heart to disturb him, so he starts cuddling him again. He’s just too tired to go back to his empty flat so he accepts this alternative with open arms.

The wind is increasing, but the small nook where they are shelters them from the cold; it’s not enough for Louis, who’s already too cold for his tolerance level, but he’s so comfortable there he wouldn’t get up for anything. Also Harry runs a lot hotter than him, and it’s like having a radiator on top of him.

“And I get you,” Louis says, interrupting their silence. “I miss my sisters-”

“And your brother.”

“And my little boy of course, always. I miss all of them so much, all the time.”

Harry’s feeling a lot better now, Louis can see it in how responsive and calm he is now. “You’re close, uh?” he asks.

“Yeah, so, so much. It’s always been family first, for all of us. We’ve always been very close, all of us. Big family, but so connected. I just… I really can’t wait to be back home, y’know?”

Harry doesn’t respond: he’s looking at the march that still going. “That must be so nice,” he says, in the end. “Tell me about them?”

And Louis does. He talks about Lottie, who will always be his baby but she’s so strong and bold now, and how confidently she carries herself, how she has a mind for business like he’s never seen in anyone else, how sweet and caring she is with all of their siblings as well; about Fizzy, who’s so introspective and smart, how she always writes poems and show them just occasionally, who always thinks about others but knows her value; about Daisy and Phoebes, who are old enough now to have their respective personalities and doesn’t depend as much on each other like when they were younger; how Daisy _already_ has a boyfriend and no matter how Louis may think it’s weird, he’s a good lad and they’re happy in their teenager bubble; and about Ernie and Dory, how cute and perfect they are, and how much happiness and delight they bring wherever they go.

Louis asks then about Harry’s sister, and he talks slowly about her, Gemma, how smart and sharp she is, how her heart is always full of love and kindness towards anybody; how she’s his biggest role model and how he, too, misses her so much, too much.

From those steps they see the transformation process of the march: the flow of the people is decreasing, but they’re still going for it, some shouting chorus and some other clearly too tired or inebriated to have all that energy. They can hear the manifestation going on from a distance, from the stage at the end of the route, where they didn’t arrive.

Harry talks with his slow, thick voice, his long pauses, his frowns while he searches for the right words to use, and Louis listens to every word, responding to him every now and then, forgetting about time, duties, obligations.

They keep chatting, slow and without a care in the world, and in the pauses Louis tries to think about what to do once he’ll get back to his flat or the day after, like his usual organiser-I’ll-make-a-list-of-things-to-do self, but he finds that he can’t. He’s tired, he’s relaxed, he’s relieved and he doesn’t want to think about the future now. He just wants to be in this moment.

He realises that he hasn’t a better place to be than right there with Harry.

There isn’t a place in this whole city better than this one: outside, sitting on some humid steps, with a guy he has known for three days, talking about the people he loves the most, and hearing about the people Harry loves the most. He wouldn't want to stay anywhere else but here with him, and it’s confusing, it’s weird, even, but it feels so fitting he can’t bring himself to care.

He doesn’t want his couch or his quiet flat or his empty bed, he wants just this.

They talk and talk and talk, and just when the march is ending Louis has the heart to say something about how late it’s getting. The people walking by them are fewer and fewer, the sun is long gone now and the sky is completely dark.

“It’s getting colder out there,” he says, after a pause. “C’mon, I’ll walk you to your bike.”

“Came here by feet,” Harry mumbles.

“I’ll walk you home, then.”

Harry gets up slowly, pouting like a toddler who just woke up from his nap. Louis feels that deep inside his heart: he doesn’t want to go back alone to his flat either, but it’s not like there’s another option for them. If it wasn’t so cold outside, he would have probably fallen asleep by now.

They walk together down those downtown streets in a comfortable silence: the march has ended but the whole city is so alive: every pub and restaurant is full of chatty, lively people.

Walking past them Louis feels an outsider like always, but now, with Harry beside him, he doesn’t know if that makes two of them, or if it’s just the rest of the world who wouldn’t understand. If it’s them who are the outsiders, those who don’t know, those who won’t get it.

Louis just follows Harry blindly, already lost in the intricate set of streets. He doesn’t feel the need to fill up the silence that there’s now between them, and knows Harry feels the same, so they walk past the evening chaos of the city quietly.

They walk until they reach a nice building, with exposed bricks and big windows.

“This is me,” Harry says, breaking their soft silence.

“You live here?” Louis asks, curious and a bit surprised. It’s not that far from where they were, so he knows they’re still in the city centre.

Harry just shrugs. He looks as exhausted as Louis feels. “My flatmate knows a guy who knows a guy.” He offers as an explanation, waving his hand.

Louis nods back at him but doesn’t know what to say next. He just walked Harry home, and this weirdly feels like the end of a first date, when neither of them knows what to do or say next.

Louis shakes himself out of the thought, and shift his weight to the left foot, to get a distance between them. He wants to say _‘have a nice evening’_ or something as blank, but Harry beats him on time, saying:

“Thank you for walking me back. And thank you for the chat and the advice. And y’know, for Eline and all that.” He’s smiling, his eyes soft.

“Thank you for making me join you for the march,” Louis replays with the same smile. “And for the whole afternoon.”

Harry remains still for a moment, then takes his keys out and adds: “Have a nice evening, Lou.”

“You too, Harry,” Louis starts to walk away, but then hears his name called and turns back to him again.

“Good luck for tomorrow,” Harry’s grinning, seeming fuelled by a renovated energy. “You’ll smash it, for sure.”

Louis feels so touched he needs a moment to replay. The past hours have been so filled with emotions he has nearly forgotten about it, and that’s _absurd_. “Thank you,” he just says, but he knows Harry understands how important it is for him.

Harry smiles at him one more time, and with that he enters the door. Louis waits until the door is safely closed, and then he starts to walk back to his flat.

~*~

Louis’ not nervous or anxious or any of that Monday morning.

He’s _excited_.

He loves talking to people – truly enjoys making conversation, discovering different points of view, confronting new people about new and old issues and trying to find a solution together.

To add on that, he’s been waiting for this moment for such a long time: presenting the work done until now with the team, getting additional feedback is something he has thought about for weeks. And he knows it’s a chill thing, because the book will be published no matter what, and probably in a matter of days by now, but he’s still eager to share their work with someone outside their bubble.

That’s why he wakes up early this morning and takes his time to do his morning routine slower, to savour each moment and allow his excitement to develop in keenness. He butters his toast like the entire world is waiting just for him, sips his tea watching the pedestrians go by, has a hot, maybe too long shower and decides to shave his beard into something neater. His hair has grown a bit since his last haircut and he can’t do much about it in just one morning, so he just combes it in a professional-looking quiff. He finishes off the look with an ironed shirt, stylish in its simplicity.

When he looks in the mirror one last time before leaving the flat, he’s satisfied with his reflection: his purple eye bags aren’t the first thing he notices at first glance, nor are the pensive lines on his forehead; the excitement in his eyes is there, matching his smart look.

He enters the workplace, looking for Sven, with the same renewed confidence: he feels like he’s grown five inches since last time he went to work on Friday.

Finding Sven revels to be fair easy: he’s chilling by the coffee machine in the break room, thankfully alone. The presentation is in less than one hour and a half, but they have a meeting beforehand.

“Hey there,” Louis greets him.

“Hey, good morning Louis, doing good?” he replies, still slouching onto the counter.

“Yeah, yeah, s’good. You?” Sven just nods back at him, so Louis goes straight into the matter. “Do you have it?”

Sven goes rigid for a second, widening his eyes, and then puffs out a laugh. “Thought you were asking for, like, heroin. Of course I have it.”

“M’not into hard drugs anyway,” Louis jokes back, recognising how it sounded.

“That’s a relief, I guess,” he says, tilting his head.

“Oi, don’t do drugs, kid.”

“First of all, I’m older than you,” Sven replies, placing his cup of coffee on the counter and going to his bag. “Second, I’m gonna have a farm in Holland and I’m gonna grow whatever I want there,” he hands him an untouched, clean version of _Lost In Japan_. It’s still baby blue, of course, but hey, at least it’s clean.

“You’re months older than me, that doesn’t count,” Louis takes the book gently. “But I trust whatever you’re gonna grow.” He browses the book for a moment, then raises his head back to Sven and thanks him once again, asking if Shawn has already arrived.

“No, not yet, but you know him, he’ll come earlier than necessary,” Sven replies, taking back his coffee and moving his low ponytail behind his shoulders.

“Oh, that’s for sure,” Louis sighs. If he learnt anything, is that Shawn’s is impatient like, all the time. “I’ll sort my stuff out and I’ll see you in like… ten minutes? In Dael’s office, right?” he asks.

“Sure, yeah,” Sven’s attention is back to his coffee, and Louis leaves.

The catch up before the presentation goes exactly as Louis had imagined it: Dael storms in her own office a couple of minutes late, with more paperwork under his arms that Louis could do in a week of work, and asks them the dreaded question:

“Has any of you founded some irremediable error, or there it is something fundamentally wrong with the layout or the overall graphics of the book?”

Louis turns the novel over in his hands, knowing perfectly well all the reason why the cover and the layout of it will simply _not work_ for it, but he also knows he had that same argument too many times to bring it up again just before the presentation of the book itself. If she didn’t listen to him before, there’s no reason for her to do it now; so no reason for him to be vocal about it now.

Isa and Noora intervene in the conversation, having spotted a couple of typing errors; Maarten has a question Louis doesn’t even register, and then they’re done, just like that.

They move to the conference room to organise the last bits of work. Shawn appears not long after, obviously too early but that isn’t a problem.

Louis moves near him to shake his hand and reads in his eyes how agitated but excited he is.

“Shawn, my man,” he says, smiling, as giddy ad him. “How you feel?”

Shawn’s hand is a bit sweaty, but Louis finds it nearly cute instead of gross. “Louis, oh, I’m… this is a lot,” he says, eyeing the people who keep entering the room: other publishers of the company as well as people from the sale network department are here; the room is almost full, they’re going to start soon.

“Don’t worry about them, you’ve already written the book, haven’t you?” Louis smile at him again, endeared by his concern. “They’re gonna judge us, not you, so relax and take a seat, you’re nearly a _published author_,” he says, just to enjoy how his face instantly flushes and seems unable to contain his glee.

“Thank you, like _thank you_, for real, I’m gonna… uh… say hi to everyone else,” he says and moves over to greet everyone else.

Behind him, Louis spots a face he thinks he recognise, but is also sure has never seen before. The man is in his sixties and is chatting with someone Louis can’t see from where he stands.

He goes to Dael, and, discreetly, asks her who is he.

“He’s from the advertising agency. His name is Richard Hendriks, I’m sure you’ve heard of him before?”

“Oh yeah, sure, thank you,” Louis says, wary to not show his emotions right now: he knows who’s that man is because he’s also the creative director of the Boekenweek, he has seen his picture on their website; like, screw all of this, if he’s here he _has to_ be on the top of his game.

Wait, this means his book is going to the event for _sure_.

He takes a deep breath and goes to his sit. They have a presentation to do first, and then he can talk to Richard as much as he wants.

The presentation itself goes in the best of ways: Louis starts with the technical parts, talking about the interline spacings, the paragraphs, the font they’ve chosen, the indentations and more, and loves how everyone is listening to him, understanding this language, knowing the importance of everything he’s mentioning. He stops to let Luuk, the graphic designer, talk about his work and what the cover and the font used for the title mean and represent. After his commentary Louis starts presenting the story itself, in its romantic and dreamy bits; Shawn, sits near him, looks like he’s going to faint at any given moment, but Louis successfully sneak a couple of smiles in his direction, to which Shawn replays the best he can.

Everyone is hung on his every word, especially the other publishers, who listen to him concentrated and admired. When he finishes he asks if there are any questions, but it seems like everyone is satisfied with what he said. Some compliments start to arise, both to Shawn and to him for their work, so Louis decides to consider the presentation as over so that who wants to can talk to him and his team or to Shawn privately.

He has looked in Richard’s direction probably too many times for it to be considered casual, and he’s fidgeting to know what he thinks.

He receives so many compliments by almost every person in the room: _“this book is just perfect”_, _“you’ve done a great job, I can’t believe this is just your first”_, _“you coordinated everything so flawlessly”_, “_I love the cover so much, what you said to Luuk to have such a great work done?_” are the ones he hears the most.

Louis thanks them the best he can, trying to sound sincere, but there’s so much positivity around him, he starts to reconsider everything he hated so much about their work: is really the cover’s colours too tawdry, or maybe he’s just too old for young adults novels? The spaces and the size of the paragraphs are really wrong, or he just decided so because he’s irritable and wants everything done exactly how he says, because he felt like he had no control over anything else?

He looks at his copy again, wondering if maybe they were doing a great job all along, and he was behaving like a _‘meticulous pain in the ass’_ for real. Maybe his colleagues do deserve some apologising from his behalf.

Something seems to finally click in his head, and he can’t help but just think this is his time to start fucking winning and nothing else.

He shakes so many hands and chats with people he has never seen before; even Shawn seems to do better now that the formal part of the morning is over and is making little conversations as well.

Louis takes this opportunity to finally go talk to Richard; he doesn’t have to do much, because apparently Richard is as eager as him to talk.

“Louis, you were brilliant. Can I just say how lucky this company is now that you work here?” Richard begins, shaking his hand and giving him a pat on his shoulder with the other one.

“Thank you, thank you, it was easy with such good material, y’know?”

“Don’t shy away from compliments, you really did a great job,” he reiterates. “This will be so easy to sell, you’ve already done so much for it. Can’t wait to see your next works.”

Louis thanks him again and the two chat for a bit about their respective jobs and recent works they’ve done; Louis is waiting for him to talk about the Boekenweek, but when he sees their chat is going nowhere, he asks about it directly.

“Listen Richard, I was meaning to ask you… since this is a great piece, you said so yourself-”

“A brilliant one.”

“Yeah, exactly, I wanted to ask you: I sent a copy of it to the Boekenweek’s application form this last Friday, and I’m curious about how this is gonna develop, from now on. Will I receive an email with the details of the event?”

From the first time since they started talking, Richard stops smiling. He looks at him, confused, and after a second of silence he just says: “It’s not… you’re not in it?”

The entire room goes upside down for a moment.

“What?” he asks, not sure if he heard correctly.

“The application ended more than a week ago, you sent it too late,” Richard explains gently, now smiling again, but with a hint of pity in his brown eyes.

“I sent it…” he lingers, unable to end the sentence.

“Yeah, it ended last Monday, if I remember correctly. Anyhow, it’s closed now,” he says again.

He’s still hoping for it to be a joke, but when Richard doesn’t add anything else and the silence between the two starts being heavy, he knows that this is serious.

_His baby is not in it. He sent it too late. They didn’t finish it in time._

_It’s too late._

“Listen, okay, can we make an exception?” He tries, desperate. “It’s a brilliant piece, you’ve said so yourself, and it’s gonna have a lot of success, yeah? We can’t just… not promote it,” Louis is grasping at straws, he knows that, but he got _so far_. He can’t give up now.

“Listen,” Richard starts again, clearly getting how upset Louis is becoming. “I’m truly sorry about it. It could’ve been perfect for the event, but we can’t change the rules. We have so much work to do, renting the place, hiring the technicians, prepare and set up the event, creating all the graphic parts… it’s a lot, like you can image. We truly can’t accept another book now, as brilliant as this one is.”

“But…” Louis doesn’t even know what he’s going to say next. “This could be such a great occasion. For me _and_ for you,” _okay, he has a direction._ “This could easily become a showpiece, a _masterpiece_ for this generation. It would give _you_ a lot of visibility. Like, not just for the foreseeable future but after. It’s an occasion too grand to just let it go like this,” he’s desperate.

“Louis.” Richard places his hand on Louis’ shoulder. He knows how final that is, even before Richard starts talking again. “I have to say, you talk better than a lot of businessmen I’ve met in my carrier, but I can’t let you convince me. I’m so, very sorry about this event, but I really can do nothing about it. Maybe for the next year, okay?”

Louis’ tongue is stuck in cement.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, in the end.

“Oh come on, don’t be so disappointed now!” He gives him another pat on the shoulder, which Louis doesn’t even register. “The book and your presentation made such a good impression on everybody, I bet they’re gonna talk about you for quite a bit now. This one will be published soon, I’m sure, and you can focus on the next ones. You can go and celebrate now!” he says, polite as he can be.

“Sure, you’re right,” Louis says again. His eyes can’t focus. “May you excuse me. It was a pleasure to talk with you.”

“For me too. Take care, you’re gonna do great stuff here,” he says, affable as always, as goes to talk with someone else.

Louis runs to the toilettes as soon as Richard leaves him, if anything to be miserable alone and not while standing in the middle of the half full conference room. The toilettes greet him with his reflection, and unlike before leaving the flat, when he looked at himself and felt on the top of the world, he just feels ridiculous now.

Was it really worth it? This whole morning, these months, all his work? Was it worth it to style himself and trying to make the best possible impression? Was he really trying to hide his misery behind a cool shirt and a quiff? Was he trying to fool himself or the rest of the world, even though he knows it’s a farce?

He goes to wash his hands, looking himself even closer: he just sees tired eyes and the awareness of the defeat.

He even coiffed himself, just to feel like a clown a few hours after. Why did he even do it? He should have known that he would get nothing out of this. He was the only one caring about this: Friday was a striking example of it, but even every other moment they worked together; hell, the mediocre result they had produced was the clearest clue of how listless they all are. A mediocre result the world isn’t even going to _see_.

They’ve been too slow. He had said that countless of times and was never heard.

He doesn’t care about what he may have thought earlier: their work hasn’t been enough. Even if he had a moment in which he felt like he could win, this is the truth: he can’t.

He can’t, because he’s alone, and he needs a team on his side.

None of them cared about making something out of themselves, none of them understood how this world, the business world, works.

With cold water hitting his hands, he scrapes the thought: maybe they’re not lazy or uncaring, maybe that’s just bitter for him to think; they have other interests, they’re not as invested as him in their work, which is totally fine and he should get it,_ he should_, because back in London he was just like them: chill, happy with the results, leaving work as _just work_ and ready to go out and enjoy the rest of life.

But the point is: even if he doesn’t have anything going on for him, he can’t justify their lack of interest and effort in their own job. Just because he does and expects a lot, always, from everyone, it doesn’t mean that they can just give him back absolutely nothing.

And to add on that, this one was his only goal in his day-to-day life, and now it’s over. He presented his book, didn’t made it to the event he has been planning for months because of their negligence, and now he truly doesn’t have nothing left.

Why would he even go back to work now?

Louis knows, deep down, how is his solitude to have made him so clingy and prone to mood swings, for making him feel like his world just exploded just because something isn’t going as he had hoped for.

There’s nothing for him, right now.

No serotonin, no sense of achievement, no pride, nothing.

Just rage, disappointment, and a hint of fatalism telling him _‘of course it went like this. Don’t tell me you actually believe you could get something out of this?’_

Louis dries his hands and realises he’s trapped now: if he chooses to remain at work, he’s going to have at least four or five hours ahead of himself with so much work left to do, things to organise, people to call, meeting to arrange, and to top of this, he has to do all of that with the same dickheads he just had his breakdown over; but if he decides to leave, his day is over.

There’s no one waiting for him, there’s no activity or hobby he could fulfill in his free time. He’s alone, completely alone here, and he needs to come to terms with that.

Looking at himself in the mirror one last time, he tries to convince himself to not break down here. He can call his friends later, he can tell them how proud of his work he is, he can take their compliments and image they were genuine, he can… he shakes his head.

The Louis in the mirror is a washed down version of the Louis of two hours ago. But Louis knows how this one is the real one; the other one was just an impostor, who got unmasked quickly, as he should be.

Maybe Louis just needs to accept that that’s how he feels, and that’s how he knows he’s going to feel for now or for forever, even; for sure, for as long as he’s in this hell of a city.

The rest of the workday goes on a lot quicker than what Louis would have liked, and he finds himself back in his dark flat sooner than what he had hoped.

He even went grocery shopping just to kill time, for fuck’s sake.

There’s no one to fool here now, apart from himself, and when he closes the door between him and the rest of the world, shutting out any noises apart from his breath, he doesn’t need to pretend anymore.

He sits down, with his back to the front door, and stares at his insignificant living room. He’s soaking wet because it’s storming outside, _of course it is, it’s always raining in this fucking city, everything’s grey_, and he’s shivering from the cold and the dripping clothes sticking on his skin.

He doesn’t have the energy to get up and have a shower, he doesn’t have the heart to sit on that couch again. He has spent three months sitting on that couch, alone, or eating at that table, alone, (or sleeping in his bed, particularly alone).

He remains like this for an incalculable amount of time, a pool of dirty water forming around him, freezing his bum off, without the energy to get up and put away the groceries or to have a shower or to actually call someone. He really, really doesn’t have the energy to talk to anyone now.

He’s living the relationship with the people he loves the most through a screen.

Before Harry, he genuinely can’t remember the last time he talked to an actual person, one physically in front of him, about something that wasn’t about work.

And Harry… He really tricked himself on that one. He genuinely thought to have made a connection with a guy who was the embodiment of sunshine. What could he possibly say to him now? He feels disconnected from life itself. This morning he was sure that he was going to text him afterward, to let him know how it went; Harry has been nice enough to remember it, the night before, it was the least he could do. And he just wanted to hear from him again because he was so sunny and breezy he made him believe in the goodness of people again, and he had a good excuse on hand.

The afternoon they had spent together was just some hours ago but those feel like centuries now; the closeness he thought he felt had disappeared. Louis doesn’t want to, can’t bear to hear from anybody now.

He rationally knows some things: like, even if he doesn’t want to, he’s going to feel better if he just takes his phone and call or texts whoever, even Oli or Calvin, and let them talk about whatever they want to; he’s going to feel better if he takes a shower and goes sitting somewhere that’s not the floor; he’s going to feel better even if he just opens the windows to hear the sounds of other humans beside him… but the constant, growing pain in his chest is suffocating him, and he can’t speak, he can’t talk, he can’t bring himself to do anything nice for himself.

~*~

Louis felt this pain in his chest for the first time back in mid-October, when the days were still long and bright. He dismissed it as something temporary, nothing to worry about, since it was going to probably disappear on its own in a few hours.

But when the hours became days he started to get worried about it, and googled what it could possibly be; he also discovered to never google any random pains you have if you don’t want to become paranoid in a matter of minutes.

The research, at the end, made him wonder that the pain could be stomach ache, or something like a gastric reflux (_<strike>even if it made no sense, the pain was in his chest, he could feel it, it made it even difficult to breathe sometimes</strike>_), since he also discovered how the pit of the stomach is a lot higher than what he imaged; so he just watched his eating for a couple of days, eating less acid or difficult to digest foods (like his loved curry).

But still, nothing happened, nothing changed.

So instead, Louis decided to listen to the pain, he tried to understand what was affecting inside of him, what was his body trying to say to him.

The pain was persistent, constant, but not always the same: sometimes it was dull, weighing on his chest, suffocating, making it difficult to breath; other times it was sharp and pointed, right down were his heart was, so intense he had feared his heart was failing more than once.

Even the intensity of it changes constantly – it was always with him, but it moves in tides: sometimes it was just a presence, an awareness; other times it came at him like a tsunami, knocking him out, making him feel like the world had just kicked him all over; and sometimes, when it was like this, it didn’t stop, but went on for days and days.

It took Louis a while to understand, but in the end, he got it: it was loneliness.

~*~

There’s no point in trying to escape from this silence ringing in his ears, from the pain drowning him.

All the people he knows and loves have different priorities and things to do. He can’t think of any of his friends without also knowing in what they’re involved right now: and it’s not an insecure feeling, because he knows his friends are going to pick up the phone no matter what, because they can pause their life for ten minutes, it’s… he really doesn’t have anything to say, anything to tell. He can see through social media how everyone around him is doing great, all the amazing things they’ve accomplished, and him? He has left his life in England and continues to be unable to build a new one here. Everyone wants to know how amazing Amsterdam is, all the crazy things _for sure he’s done, right Lou?!_, but he hasn’t done anything, he has nothing to say and all the things he thinks are too sad to share, so.

So he remains silent, for hours on end, for days on end.

Completely alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo, mijn naam is Louis: Hello, my name is Louis  
Hun kinderen houden van paarden: their children love horses (fun (?) random fact: I tried to learn German once with Duolingo and half the sentences were something with horses)  
Met mijn mama: with my mum  
Eline, mijn mama heet Marie: Eline, and my mum’s name is Marie  
Ja, ja, ik ben het, waar is zij: Yes, yes, it is me, where is she?  
Lieverd? Ben jij dat?: Sweetheart? Is that you?  
Zeg dank aan de jongens: Say thanks to the boys  
***************  
[ Harry’s sign ](https://www.hinzie.com/media/image/229369.jpg) and [ Louis’ sign ](https://dok7xy59qfw9h.cloudfront.net/253/f4fd2/cb7c/44ec/afb5/a77196b2199f/large/32234.jpg)  
**********  
Mmmh, sorry? This is probably (one of) the epitome of ‘Louis is big sad’, I’ll say that  
Fun fact nobody cares about: violent man it’s not ill, he’s the healthy son of patriarchy it’s an Italian chant, not a Dutch one, bc I couldn’t find any on google. Absurd, yeah.  
Also! @awardsforgoodboys is one of my favourite comic artists, pls check her out on Instagram or twitter, she’s super good. And!! This Monday (the 25th eheh) there will be protests all over the world against violence on women, so, if you can, I’d invite you to participate! Maybe you too will cuddle on some random stairs with a cute someone? Who knows, a lot can happen in this life  
Again, feedback of any kind is super appreciated, so if you wanna let me know what you thought of this I’m all ears!
> 
> As always, [ my tumblr ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/), [ the rebblogable post ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/post/625001364010024960/amsterdam-with-you), [ ‘awy’ tag on my tumblr](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/tagged/awy), and [ the playlist for the fic ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL5momjAjTuX6twPBNWmdXHrC46ATa8szU)  
See you on the 27th!


	3. 27th - 30th of November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii!! Just wanted to say thank you again to everyone who’s been following this fic and leaving kudos and comments, you really are making my days and weeks :’)  
Btw I love this chapter :)) so, no pressure (nose pressure), but I hope you’ll like it too!
> 
> Only warning: (finally some) weed

Tuesday and Wednesday go exactly like Monday: Louis goes to work late, to finish the day as late as possible so to have the least amount of free time possible to spend in his flat.

He sees a dark tint of blue dyeing his life now, and he’s powerless, he has no weapon to drive it away.

The only motivation he had was over, and he didn’t get out of it what he wanted, not even something satisfactory, but instead just made him see things in an even darker light.

In the particularly uneventful Tuesday afternoon he buys a pack of cigarettes, despite the promises he had made to himself to stop smoking. He smokes the entire pack in the same afternoon, cig after cig, trying to scratch out that emptiness he feels and fill it with nicotine.

He feels like death itself by the evening and now his body keeps asking him for more: definitely not worth it, but at least he thought about something else during the day.

He knows which (healthy) things could bring him that sparkle of serotonin he desperately needs: like playing his guitar or his keyboard that costed him an arm and a leg to be safely sent when he moved in here with the plane. But every time he looks at them, sitting untouched against a wall, he feels like he’s swallowing cement.

He always played for his own pleasure, with no specific goal in mind, so he never became a talent or a professional at neither. If he touches them now, after months of neglection, he’s going to sound horrendous, and that would only make him feel worse.

Wednesday morning Lottie calls him while he’s at work. He had left his phone on his desk and went to Dael’s office to discuss the next projects they have in store, and when he gets back he sees _1 missing call from – Lotts xxx_ just half an hour late. This is the type of little things that make him feel completely desperate nowadays.

He texts her a quick _“hey love, everything’s good? I’m at work” _to which she replays instantly, saying _“all’s fine. Miss you, that’s it xxx”. _It shouldn’t make him want to cry as much as it does, but it still does.

He promises her to call her _asap_ and goes out to smoke a cig (or maybe two or three).

He ends up not calling her that evening, that’s how exhausted he feels, but promises, _this time for real Lotts, _they’ll have a facetime in the weekend.

The only interruption to this misery happens on Thursday morning: he has a meeting with Aaron Slagle, the CEO of the marketing sector of the publishing house to discuss those bits of the publications. The man has always been polite and professional with him, and Louis was looking forward to doing something different. In another state of mind, he would have suggested to Maarten to come with him or instead of him, since he had a master’s degree in Marketing Communications, but he felt bored enough to be selfish and take this opportunity for himself.

Aaron’s office was in the city centre, of course, so since it’s not going to rain this morning, he takes the opportunity to take his time and go there by foot, breathing in the cold air and thinking about what they were going to discuss.

The beautiful houses of the centre make him think about Harry, and about how he ghosted him without a word. Louis would have never done something like that in another state of mind. He liked the afternoon they spent together but he was neck deep into this pool of concrete now. At least that’s how he feels: he sees people walking down his same streets like they have no obstacles, like the only thing they are going through is air; but he feels like he has to drag himself through molasses to move those same steps, and not a sweet one; just a sticky, distressing, weary one.

At least the long walk between his flat and Aaron’s office lights up a spark in him: he hasn’t done any physical activity in months he can now feel his brain actually working again, after some genuine movement.

The meeting goes smoothly: words have arrived at Aaron’s ears, who is very pleased by the work Louis had done; during the whole reunion he made a point to tell him exactly how important for the company he has becoming in such a short time. He, just like Richard, tells him that this book will probably sell by itself with the level of _‘amazing effort’ _he and his team had put into it.

Louis, just like Monday, nodded to himself and said nothing about it for a good portion of the meeting, but when they started talking numbers and actual strategies for the launch, he lights up again. He doesn’t know much about marketing and he knows it, but he knows for sure how to sell his work.

All in all the morning goes a lot better than expected: he smokes less than what he had in the last two days, chats with people who aren’t his usual colleagues, doesn’t see Dael for some hours and gets a lot more compliments than he had expected.

Even more than that, he finally gets nice news:

“So, since everything’s ready, I’d say we’re set to print it this Tuesday,” Aaron says towards the end of the meeting, checking a calendar.

Louis waits a moment, trying to find the catch; but there really isn’t one, so he croaks out a: “Next week?”

“Sure, next week,” Aaron replays, all smiles and politeness. “Here, take a look.” He passes Louis his overcrowded calendar, where in the middle of too many exclamation points and red arrows Aaron had encircled the 4th of December.

“We always print books on a Tuesday here, it’s a tradition, I guess. It’s a bit early but everything is ready for the launch. I told you, you worked so hard on this one, it’s clear as a day, and it’s better to print it before Christmas than in January, you know?” Aaron takes back his calendar, looking at it briefly.

“That would be perfect,” _god, I need something nice so badly_, Louis thinks. “I really can’t wait to see it, then.”

“You’ll just have to wait… five days. Think you can do it?” Aaron asks with a polite smile.

“Of course, yeah, I’ve been waiting for three months, you know?” Louis smiles again. _It’s gonna get published next week, just next week!_

Aaron nods at him, clearly happy for him, and they check the last details for the launch.

Louis gets out of the building feeling _decent_ for the first time in three days. Sure, he has to go back to his office that afternoon, but it’s not raining, it’s cold but not freezing, and he had just spent some hours with people who are serious about their work and has had the best news he could hope for.

Just next week! He really can’t stop thinking about it.

Then, an ugly realisation creeps up in his head: if the publication is set for this Tuesday, there’s no way he can go back home Friday, the 7th, for a quick weekend there. To be with his family for the second anniversary of their mother’s death.

It was a stretch, he didn’t even tell anyone about it, scared it could be spoilt, but now it’s gone. He didn’t even believe in it, but now that it’s sure he can’t he still feels bitter.

It’s as if this city wants three things from him for every nice one it gives to him.

He can’t win.

He lights up a cigarette and ponders to take the bus or to get back to his flat by foot again. He walks slowly, looking at the buildings and thinking about what Harry said about the aesthetic of this city, about the vibe he could feel from it. Louis doesn’t pick up shit, that’s certain, but he does _see_ the beauty of the city. He appreciates the slim, all different buildings, the clean streets, the people slowly walking by the channels, but…

He does feel trapped here. He does feel like there are no opportunities, that he took the wrong decision months ago and now has no idea of how to make it right again.

And this city represents all of this to him and more and he can’t do anything about it, but at least recognizing how pretty these streets and these houses are can maybe make him feel more grateful for what he has.

While walking towards the bus stop, still observing the architecture, the bikes and the flowers, he spots something near one of the channels.

It’s still early and he has nothing to do, so he turns towards it to look at it better.

There is an… installation, maybe, suspended over the channel: big objects, looking like helixes or starfishes, are connected and look over the city from their spots, high over the streets.

Louis observes them, smoking, trying to understand what they are or what they could represent. He looks around, but no one apart from him look surprised by their appearance; he saw Aaron in that office what, two weeks ago? There weren’t any flying starfish back then. This is something new.

No one is giving it attention, apart from those who are visibly tourists, who are as taken aback as him. Everyone else just strolls around, barely looking at it. There’s no sign that says what is it, but the installation looks too professional to have been made by a non-licensed part, so it must be something obvious for everyone.

He sees a guy snapping a pic of it and realises that if there’s anyone who knows what this is, that’s Harry. Googling _’flying starfish over Amsterdam’ _probably won’t give him the result he needs.

He puts out his cig and throws it in a bin, then takes out his phone.

He ponders his action just for another moment. Should he text Harry? Like this, out of nowhere?

Well, to be honest, it’s not like they owe something to one another, or that’s what Louis would think about anyone else, but he _felt_ the way they clicked that Sunday afternoon, and he needs a friend, now more than ever.

He takes a picture of it and sends it to Harry, along with the texts: “_what the fuck is this”._

_Eloquent as always,_ he thinks to himself, and goes to catch his bus.

~*~

Harry responds to him sooner than he had expected, which is an hour later, when he’s having lunch. His text his as eloquent al Louis’: it only says _“wow, u really don’t know jack shit about this city”._

Louis looks at it for a moment, still chewing, waiting for Harry to elaborate on that; but he doesn’t, so he writes back:

_… so? I didn’t text you to be bullied_  
_What is it, Amsterdam connoisseur?_

He doesn’t know what is about talking to Harry that makes him feel less tired than do the same with his closest friends or his _sisters_,_ for fuck’s sake_, but he’s so glad he can talk to someone without feeling like caving into himself. Maybe it’s because they don’t know each other that much, so he doesn’t feel the pressure to be the version of himself that Harry expects, or maybe he’s just easy to talk to, always so easy going and friendly, or-

Harry has already responded. Louis re-focus on his phone.

**jflghasljdf**  
**It’s a thing that there’s every winter here**  
**It’s called light festival**  
**Wait, I’ll send u some links**

Harry writes way too fast for Louis to keep up with him, he had learnt that, so now he just waits until he’s done with whatever he has to say. Harry sends the link just some seconds after that, still too quickly for Louis’ capabilities.

Louis thanks him and opens the link, reading about the festival: _“this year's theme is ‘The Medium is the Message’, the famous statement by the Canadian scientist Marshall McLuhan.”_ The page says. _“The role of light in conveying a message and the city of Amsterdam as a medium for telling stories are central to this edition.”_

There are also pictures of every installation: apparently what Louis saw this morning was called _[ A.N.N. ](https://amsterdamlightfestival.com/en/artworks/ann)_ and represented neurocognitive activity. Those things that looked like starfishes for him were, in fact, _neurons_. Well, contemporary art has never been his strongest point.

The installation made a route around the principal rings of channels. The pictures are beautiful and give a bit of this spellbound vibe Harry’s always talking about. Louis browse around the site, curious, and then writes back to Harry:

_This looks so cool_  
_Thank you, I’ll defo check it out_

**Bet you don’t have this shit in London**, is all Harry has to say back to him. Louis looks straight ahead for a moment. _This fucking kid_, he thinks.

_We have far better shit there, darling, _he sends. He thinks about what exactly there is interesting in London, but his mind plays a blank screen. His last memories in London aren’t his happiest ones, one could say that. Liam’s excited expression at the first stop he always used to make when visiting him is the only thing that pops up in his mind.

_Like, real life dinosaurs_, he continues. It’s a bit lame, but still.

**True, true**  
**Also, all that whole harry potter thing**  
**That sounds cool**

_Yeah yeah_  
_I mean I never really cared about it tbh_

**Oh thank god**  
**Neither did I**

_Tough childhood, yours_, Louis sends, thinking about all the jokes Harry could have heard in his life.

**You said it**  
**Hey one thing**  
**I was waiting for it to start**  
**We could go see them together**

Louis stares at the texts for a moment. To be honest, this is already a lot more than what he had expected: he could’ve been satisfied with a replay, that’s it, but he’s chatting with Harry like his life didn’t go down the drain some days ago.

He’s already feeling better because of this interaction, and it’s been minutes.

And not only that, Harry’s inviting the opportunity to unwind, thinking about something that’s not work and maybe starting to crawl back from the hole he’s been hiding since Monday.

Once again, he realises how simple it really is to get out, or better, to start to get out of this pool of concrete really is: he needs to put himself out. He needs to expose himself a bit if he wants a change.

_Sure_, he finally says. _It was this easy_, he thinks, and he knows that, of course he does: but when you’re that down you forget about everything but yourself, all your thoughts get too clouded to be analysed and your brain can only see the morbid part of it.

**Nice**  
**I’d say we go tomorrow**  
**If you’re free**  
**In the weekend there’ll be too many ppl**

_Too many, now?_  
_You believe in this city too much_  
_But yeah tomorrow’s fine_

**Like in the evening?**, Harry asks, glossing over Louis’ tease.  
**So they’re lighten up**

_Smart move_  
_Yeah, tomorrow evening is perfect_

**Okkkkkk see you tomorrowwww**

_Bye_

Louis gets up to place his dirty plate in the sink, knowing full well how he doesn’t care that much about light installations, but if that’s the way to see Harry again and finally breathe some fresh air, he’ll gladly take it.

~*~

It’s fucking freezing outside.

Of course it is, _it always is_, he should stop being surprised by that, but he really didn’t expect the icy gust of wind in his face as soon as he steps out of the bus.

God, if he didn’t hate his flat with every fibre of his being, he would consider backing out.

He’s meeting Harry in front of _[ Transmission](https://amsterdamlightfestival.com/en/artworks/transmission)_, which is the first installation from the north, with the plan of making the entire route, but again, he’s already frozen and he’s been out for just two minutes by now.

He recognises Harry from a distance: he’s looking at the installation, rapt. He has a jacket that fits him this time, always accompanied by his beanie and scarf. He turns to Louis when he’s getting near him, and without waiting for him to be at a decent distance, he starts talking in a rush.

“Oh, Louis, hi, I’m so glad to see you, I can say that, right?” he walks to Louis and without waiting for a replay he continues: “Like, I’m so glad I’m out of my flat in general. My flatmate is making me _crazy_.”

Louis, physically taken aback by that avalanche of words, blinks at him twice and then responds with a: “… I’m sorry? What has he done?”

“I mean, nothing, but you know, he’s an _artist_,” Harry says, waving his hand and stressing the last word as if that alone could be an explanation (it’s really not). “You know any artist? You know how they are, right?”

“I mean… Maybe?” Louis still has no idea of what Harry’s talking about. He didn’t even say _hello_ yet. He somehow managed to forget the energy ball Harry can be. “What kind of artist is he?” He asks out of confusion.

“He’s a fashion designer.”

“Okay, I definitely don’t know any fashion-anything… people.”

“I know too many by now, and they’re all so weird.” Harry rolls his eyes to underline that. “And he’s good, like really good, alright? But I mean, he’s all moody now, right, and eccentric, and thinks random things are his muse, and he’s been listening to Janelle Monáe obsessively lately, which I don’t mind but maybe not at three am, you feel me?” Louis nods at him because Harry seems stressed over this and probably needs some validation.

“And tomorrow he’ll have this meeting and-” just like that, Harry freezes. Louis stares at him, confused, for just a second before Harry launches himself in a totally different direction.

“You had a thing! This week, right?” Harry’s basically talking by himself by now; his eyes are _so_ big, and even in the dark, among the orange lights, Louis can make out how limpid they are.

“I had a thing this week, yeah, very good Harry,” Louis mocks him, gently.

“With the author and the book _I _ruined after I ran over you and all that. Hey, it was just last Friday! Don’t know, seemed more long ago, right?”

“Right,” Louis replays, leaning to the fence between the channel and street, relaxing on it the best he can; his neck and shoulder feel better than the last few days. He’s giving his back to the installation, and he still hasn’t even looked at it. “I did the presentation, yeah. Went well. Borrowed a colleague’s copy, as you suggested.” He glosses over the Boekenweek thing. Now’s not the time. “It’s gonna get printed this Tuesday, and that’s nice.”

“Tuesday when?” Harry asks, getting near him, resting his left hip on the fence near Louis.

“This one, the 4th.”

“This one? But that’s so soon!” he smiles, dimples and all. Louis wants to poke them. “There’ll be like, posters around the city with it?” he asks, seriously. Now that he’s less frantic and Louis can see him a bit better, he sees there’s stubble on his cheeks, which is new. It suits him though, gives him a bit of that adult look that his dimples always steal from him.

“Posters- no, he’s no Stephen King,” Louis can’t help but puffs out a laugh at that. Not that that is funny, but he likes how genuine Harry is, always.

“Not yet,” Harry corrects him, with a whole wink. He’s so cheesy.

“I’ll tell him, he’ll shit his pants,” Louis says, back on his feet again. “Let’s start the tour?”

“Of course.” Harry clears his throat and then starts again, with his voice set like a tour guide: “On your right, you can admire, emh, _Transmission_?” He checks his phone for a moment. “Which is about media. Media are bad. The end.”

“Absolutely,” Louis nods. “Read more books.”

“Amen.”

He has chatted with Harry for five minutes or less and he already feels so much better than the past four days. He and his dimples have that kind of power over him, apparently. They start walking toward the next, following the map on Harry’s phone.

“You were saying? Before, about your flatmate?” Louis asks, curious.

“Oh, yeah, about that,” Harry’s fired again. “I don’t know, I adore him usually but these pasts weeks he’s becoming _a lot_.”

“I can’t image,” Louis says, honestly. “It’s always like drawing straws to live with someone. Like, I live alone now, but I had weird experiences in the past.” He can’t help but cringe at the memory of his Uni days.

“You can afford a flat for yourself?” Harry asks, incredulous.

“Yeah, but I don’t live in the centre like you, and anyway, it’s always better than keep finding road signs in the living room the morning after a night out-”

“No!” Harry’s already laughing. He doesn’t even know the half of it.

“-or finding sprouts in your kitchen sink because nobody has washed the dishes in weeks-”

“No way-”

“-_way_, or people who faked their own kidnapping to not pay their last rent. Ah, those were good times.” Louis sighs with a playful smile. Next to him, Harry can’t stop laughing.

“Where did you find these talents?”

“I didn’t do anything! They were all like this. I mean, it’s not like I was any better.” He briefly thinks about how mad Liam used to get at him when they first moved in together. Louis remembers clearly times when he went weeks without doing laundry. Good times.

“I don’t know what I would do, and I thought my quarrels were bad,” he has finally stopped snickering. “But no, I mean, he’s my best friend, he really is-”

“Ok, that’s already different.”

“It is, it’s just, he has this meeting tomorrow, right? And it’s a big deal, he’s trying to get some of his pieces signed for a runway in the Spring collection of _I don’t know what_, and he’s getting crazy, which is making me crazy too, by… osmosis?”

“But that’s totally different!” Louis feels that he has to say that. “Poor guy, he’s _stressed_. You should be more supportive, not criticize him like this.” He adds, knocking their shoulders.

“Poor guy what, he keeps sewing pieces in the middle of the night, then asking me to model for him and then he gets upset because I’m not built like his usual models. Like, what can I even do? Shrink three sized down?”

“Mmmh, well, I don’t know. Be supportive? Make him tea?” He suggests.

“I already do that,” Harry says, more affronted than necessary.

“Then I really don’t know. Did you leave him alone tonight, though?”

“No, he’s out with his artist friends. I hope they can bear him better than I did.”

Walking, they reach the second installation, which is floating in the big channel that separates Noord from the rest of Amsterdam.

“This one, this one is beautiful,” Harry breathes, starry eyes.

It really is. Thousands of small, red lights are positioned inside a cage. They teem, shines, blink at different rhythms. It takes Louis a second to understand that they’re in the shape of a mouth.

“What is this?” he asks, curious.

“This one is called… umh, _[ Desire](https://amsterdamlightfestival.com/en/artworks/desire)_,” Harry responds, fumbling with his phone. “The descriptions says: _lips symbolise desire, lust and sensuality. And that’s because we use them to make contact with others, by expressing our emotions and wishes or even literally with a kiss_,” he reads from his phone.

“Yeah, I can see it.” Louis gets as near as he can to the installation. Maybe it’s a bit kitsch, with all this pink and red and the flashy lights, but he likes it. He loves romantic stuff, especially the over the top one.

In the silence, he can’t help but think how he hasn’t kissed anyone since he broke up with David in April. Maybe his lips have forgotten they could be used for something else other than eating noodles.

He misses it, so much.

Not David, but everything else. The kisses, the intimacy, the sex.

The feeling of being at home.

In a second, the overwhelming weight is back. Harry always distracts him so well, carries him in another space where the past can’t get him and neither can the present. But now that both of them are admiring an installation about kissing and desire, the sadness creeps up again, and his neck instantly feels stiffer. He really can’t have a moment of peace.

He hates it more than he has ever hated anything.

Harry leans on the fence near him, their arms brushing. Louis likes it, likes how it gets him back from his thoughts. He’s still reading the description of the art, and Louis focuses back the best he can to his words:

“… _From the side, the image of the lips disappears, and you see a heartbeat instead – our hearts beat faster with strong desires,” _he reads, and his voice seems quieter than before, their arms are pressed one onto the other, they’re so close, Harry is in his space, waiting for Louis to do something, and-

“D’ya wanna a fag?” Louis asks, distancing himself from Harry and reaching for the pack in his jeans. He needs a smoke. He doesn’t want to think about kisses and desire and all that bullshit anymore.

“What?!”

Louis turns back to him: there’s shock and outrage on his face, his posture his defensive, he almost shouted and he looks angry and-

“A cigarette,” Louis clarifies, waving the pack in front of his face.

Just like it started, Harry’s shock slips away, leaving just disorientation and a hint of embarrassment on his face.

“Oh,” he breathes. “No, thank you.”

Louis gets the misunderstanding and knows it could be funny, but it’s so cold and he’s bothered by these artists who never mind their own damn business.

“Let’s keep walking, I’m freezing,” he mumbles, lighting up his cigarette, and leaves before Harry can replay.

They keep walking, brushing near the installations they don’t find interesting and taking their time for the prettiest ones, chatting about what they see.

Harry particularly likes _[ Portam Civitatis](https://amsterdamlightfestival.com/en/artworks/archestextures-portam-civitatis)_, with its delicate lines, fine as spiderwebs, and the strong arches.

“I’ve never seen the Light Festival before, but it’s so… pretty.” It’s like he doesn’t have the words to express what he’s feeling. “I love this city at night, but with all this art now it doesn’t even look real, it’s even more… magical? Does that make sense?”

It doesn’t, not for Louis, but he nods nevertheless.

The purple and blue lights dance on Harry’s face, and Louis finds himself looking more at him than at the art. In a very confusing moment, Louis thinks how he’s pretty as well, and so much more than the sculptures.

It leaves a weird taste in his mouth, but it’s undebatable: his beauty is objective, plain and simple, and there’s nothing weird or surprising for Louis to acknowledged it. In the shadows, Harry’s strong features look even sharper and firmer, but the blooming happiness that pours out of his expression makes him look so candid and naïve.

Harry takes some photos and he’s done admiring it, ready to continue the tour, and Louis’ glad to be distracted by something new.

When they get to the next one, Louis’ left speechless. He has seen the picture on the website, but it really doesn’t do it justice.

“This one is called _[ Light A Wish](https://amsterdamlightfestival.com/en/artworks/light-a-wish)_,” Harry supplies.

“I love it,” Louis croaks out. “It’s beautiful. It’s… so powerful.” He suddenly feels so exposed and fragile.

Dandelions made of steel are hung over the channel: there are dozens of them, and they cover metres and metres of the way. It’s not just that: they glow softly, in a way that makes it look like they’re breathing.

In a second he’s back to be seven years old.

“You see! There are nice things in this city, too!” Harry exclaims next to him, oblivious of Louis’ Proust moment.

“They remind me of when I was a kid,” he continues, unable to stop looking at them.

“Oh, yeah, I loved to blow them as a kid. What’s their name in English?” their shoulder knock again, but this time Louis remains still, and after a second Harry leans on him.

Of all things Louis likes about Harry probably in the first place there’s how cuddly and touchy he is. Louis hasn’t touched a single person in months, not in an affectionate way; but it feels so much more, when you’re used to hugs and kisses and touches every day, when you’re the kind of person who’s always cuddling your friends or your several siblings. Touching Harry, casually or intentionally, still feels like an electric shock, but it’s also comforting now. It’s starting to feel right.

Louis had no idea one could even _yearn_ touch has much as he did.

“The flower’s name is dandelion, but the white flowy part is called puffball,” Louis explains. Then he thinks better of it and adds: “But I think it’s one of those words that everyone has a different name for it, you know? What are they called in Dutch?”

“Yeah same, I’ve always called the white part _stuifzwam _but who knows,” Harry shrugs a little, but remains relaxed on Louis’ shoulder. “The flower’s is _paardebloem_.”

“_Stuifzwam, paardebloem,_” Louis repeats slowly, with quite a difficulty.

“Hey, that was actually really good!” Harry sounds surprised, as he should be. Louis’ sure his pronunciation is still terrible.

Louis smiles without looking at him: he can’t stop staring at the installation and breathing slowly with the steel flowers. They remain in silence, shoulder to shoulder, in the middle of the bridge.

Louis’ freezing everywhere but where their bodies touch through the several layers of clothes.

“I… I used to always pick them up when I was a kid,” he breathes, dreamy. “And I remember that sometimes I would take one and then just stare at it, because I felt like I had nothing to ask for. I remember staring at it and not blowing it because I’d ask myself _‘what more could I want?’_, and there was no answer. I had everything I could ask for. I really did.” He’s talking like he’s in a daze.

He remembers those moments so well, like he lived them yesterday: the warm sun, his shorts always a bit too long on him and his shirt always a bit too big – rarely first-hand clothing; the pretty grass, running until his legs felt heavy and his chest burned, and then running more.

The chirping of the birds, the laughing from his mom, the squeals from his baby sisters… he keeps those memories close to his heart, always so grateful to have had such beautiful moments through his whole childhood.

He knows there was a lot he could have asked for: for his mum to work and to worry less, so they could spend more time together and she would have been happier, more relaxed; for Mark to walk in their life sooner and maybe to not walk away a few years later, but at that point he was too old for making wishes with puffballs; for his sisters to be always as happy and as healthy as he remembers them in those idyllic moments. Or for something just for himself, just for once: those Gameboy almost everyone in school had except him, or a real football uniform of Manchester United; but those special things were just for special moments, and he had accepted that.

But he also remembers feeling his heart full of love and recognising how nothing felt better than making someone else happy; how giving love was, and still is, always better than receiving it.

It starts drizzling, and Louis resurfaces back to reality. Doing so, he realises, with a start, that he had never said that to anyone, before. Not even to his mum.

Harry still hasn’t said anything, and Louis thinks that maybe he said something too serious, so he rushes to downplay it:

“Then I always gave it to one of my sisters, one shouldn’t waste a good wish, you know?” He turns to look at Harry, but he looks serious, like he had listened carefully to everything Louis has said and is now thinking about it.

He’s still looking at the installation, deep in thought.

It keeps drizzling, but none of them begin to move away from the rain.

“Would you make a wish now? If you found a puffball?” he asks, in the end.

Louis’ taken aback by his question in the best of ways.

“Of course I would,” he answer, without missing a bit.

“What would you wish for?”

Louis would think about it, but his mind goes always to the same places: _I wish I could find peace. I wish I could go home. I wish I had a home. I wish I didn’t feel this hole in my chest anymore. I wish I could feel whole again. I wish I could have the love and the family I’ve always dreamt of. I wish I could talk to my mom for one last time_, he thinks in a loop.

“I can’t tell you, otherwise it won’t come true,” he says, in the end.

“True, true.” There’s a small smile on Harry’s lips, like he expected Louis to answer like that.

“What about you?” Louis nudges him gently. “Would you make a wish?”

“Sure, I’ve never not made one. And my sister wouldn’t have wanted my second-handed puffballs anyway.”

“And what would you wish for?”

Harry tilts his head, looking pensive.

“I think I’ll say the same,” he says, turning to look at Louis. “It won’t happen otherwise, right?” His voice is low, deeper than before, and he’s staring at Louis in the eyes, serious.

“Fair enough.”

They remain under the light rain, unbothered.

Louis doesn’t feel as cold as before, even if it doesn’t make any sense: the wind is as strong as before and the rain is soaking them. Harry curls around him, and Louis instinctively put his right arm around his back. He feels a warmness that goes beyond Harry’s body rested on his.

“I think it’s gonna rain,” Harry complains.

“It’s already raining, darling,” Louis says with a hint of a smile.

Another precious thing about Harry is how pet names seem to be alright with him. When you’re a Northern man like Louis, pet names are given to anyone you encounter. He had to strain himself in Manchester, even more in London, but even when he slipped his accent gave him away and he never sounded too weird. But here, in a country that’s not his, where everyone (rightfully) ignores the tendencies of his dialect, his _darling _and _love _were always received with wariness, until Louis learnt to bite his tongue and start calling people just by their name.

The first time he called Harry _darling_ they were in a distressed moment and it went over both of their heads, but Louis never stopped after that and Harry always accepted it beaming.

“Can it be on the verge of raining… if it’s already raining?” Harry wonders, his voice lost like he’s talking to himself.

“Now you’re asking the deep, philosophical questions here.”

“Plato wants what I have,” he mumbles, and straightens from Louis, who let his arm fall. “Wanna keep going?”

Louis looks at the dark sky for a moment: it doesn’t look like it’s going to stop, but then again he grew accustomed to perpetual rain and would never go back to his flat now that he feels so bare, so.

“I want to see at least the starfishes lightened up,” he responds.

“There are starfishes?” Harry’s surprise seems to pour out his eyes.

“Not quite, the pic I sent you?...” Louis lingers. “Anyway, let’s keep going.”

Harry grins like he just attained exactly what he wanted, and they start walking again under the rain.

They don’t go far though: the happy drizzling becomes quickly proper rain and a storm not long after, and they have to seek shelter under some sloping roof near a wall.

Louis is frowning at the rain like that could make it stop. Seriously, he knows clear weather never lasts much here, but right now? That’s just rude. He throws a glance at Harry, on his left: he looks sulky and disappointed and Louis feels the exact same.

He wants to reassure him, but about what? Does Harry need reassurance or is he the one who feels sick at the idea of ending this moment? Will he have to go back to his empty flat? Does he-

“Do you wanna a tea?”

Louis keeps losing focus and he doesn’t understand what, and why, is happening to him. He turns to look better at Harry, who’s still facing the copious rain, his gaze lost somewhere.

“I always fancy a cuppa.”

“Nice to know. Let’s go to my flat, it’s near here.” And with that, Harry walks right past him and turns into a narrow alley to his right, and Louis’ left with no choice but to follow him. He doesn’t even have time to smile to himself, pleased Harry just postponed his time alone.

Harry’s flat _is_ near – just some minutes by feet, they aren’t even that soaked when they step inside the small hall of the building and climb the steep stairs.

“Please leave your shoes near the door,” Harry says once they’re inside, while doing the same with his own. “I can give you like,” he does a grabbing gesture with his hands, his face scrunched. “Fuzzy socks, if you want? And you can hang your jacket here. If you’re soaked and want to change clothes just tell me.”

“’m good, but thank y-”

“_Shit! Hij heeft een zooitje achtergelaten_,” Harry exclaims as soon as he steps into the living room. “I’m sorry, my flatmate left a mess here. _Wat een pannenkoek_,” he adds under his breath.

_“I’m sure it’s fine,”_ Louis would say, but as soon as he enters the space he sees that ‘mess’ is the only way to describe the room: there are pieces of fabric _everywhere_, even on the countertop; on the table there’s also a sewing machine, surrounded by more fabric and, after a closer inspection, a lot of drawings. But to be honest, he’s too busy to get acclimatized to the warm room to care.

“I’ll dump all this crap in his room, give me a mo’,” Harry mutters, clearly not pleased. “_Hoe kun je al je rotzooi op deze manier achterlaten_,” he keeps mumbling to himself.

“I can give you a hand.” Louis’ already grabbing a piece of fabric on one of the chairs, but Harry takes it from his hands, not unkindly, and says:

“Don’t give him the courtesy to fold this, I’ll just throw everything in his room, okay? You can start the tea if you want to.”

Louis realises it’s pointless to try to help him and drops the matter. "Sure thing, love," he says instead, and goes to the kitchen corner. He hears Harry drop something behind his shoulder, soon followed by a string of Dutch curses.

“If you change your mind give me a shout!” he says for good measure.

He approaches the countertop, moving the fabric laying there on the table, and thankfully spots the boiler before he can bother Harry about it.

He fills it, turns it on and then finally takes a look at the flat: it's small and narrow, just like his; only, it's furnished a lot better than his one. Beyond the temporary mess, the room is filled with colours, the walls are covered with posters and prints and near a nice-looking couch there's a big, healthy plant that is clearly well looked after. The lights are dimmed and warm, making the whole room appear cosy and intimate. All in all, it’s a really nice flat, considering it’s rented by a struggling fashion designer and a physiotherapist in their _twenties_.

But, of course, it's the bookshelf that interests Louis the most.

Giving one last look at the boiler, making sure the water is still cold, he ventures into the room. Harry's still too busy to mind him, still muttering incomprehensible complaints, and Louis goes straight to it, feeling almost called by it.

It’s a big one, made of dark wood, and on its shelves there are candles, knick-knacks and a lot of photos: Louis doesn’t recognise anyone, obviously, just some of Harry’s where he’s with a couple of women who look just like him (probably his mom and sister – _Gemma, right?_), and another one where he’s with a blonde child (_Lux_, he guesses), both of them smiling wide.

Beyond those there are the actual books: a lot of novels in Dutch, published by a few houses he knows of; some of it are classics, and a small portion of them are books Louis doesn’t recognise, written by Dutch authors he knows only by name.

The books on the bottom shelf look more interesting than the novels, so Louis kneels to take a better look at them. He doesn’t recognise almost anything: they’re expensive looking, clearly about fashion; he knows just the ones published in the US, in France or in Italy, but near those there are some written in Japanese and Korean by houses he’s never heard from. They’re probably made by specialists, and they’re so well paginated and-

“Water’s ready.”

Louis resurfaces to reality with a start. The boiler’s making a lot of noises and it’s clear it went off some time ago. Harry’s walking into the room with his hands behind his back, the kitchen is now empty and clean. Louis has no idea for how much he’s been looking at the bookshelf.

“Uh.” Louis gets back on his feet. “’ve got caught away. Those are really beautiful,” he says, as an excuse, gesturing the pieces he was studying.

Lately he’s been losing focus too easily, and it’s always hard and weird to get back to reality. Louis knows that more often than not people have to say things several times to him, especially at work or when he’s on the phone, before he catches up and understands what they’re saying. Sometimes he just stares at others and tries to understand how it is possible for them to speak the same language before realising that _yeah, this is English,_ he should understand at least this.

“Yeah, those are Zayn’s, they’re super expensive.” Harry turns off the boiler and looks for the mugs in the cabinet. “He’s obsessed with those.”

“Who?”

“My flatmate?” Harry turns to him, frowning. One curl, still too short to be tucked behind his ear, hungs loosely on his forehead like a question mark. “I’ve never called him by his name?”

“Uh, afraid not.” Louis leans on the counter near Harry.

“Weird. Anyway, about the tea…” Harry starts to rummage inside the pantry. “You look like the kind of guy, who, well…”

“What now, c’mon,” Louis says, a smile already cracking on his face.

“Who gets _real_ offended if he’s offered, like, herbal tea,” Harry continues, turning to look at him dead in the eyes.

“You know what? You’re right, I-”

“Because he’s British and he thinks they’ve invented that crap,” Harry interrupts him.

A genuine laugh bubbles up in Louis’ chest. “You’re such a little shit,” he says, laughing. “But I kinda am, sorry about that. I’m picky with my tea.”

Harry’s smiling, clearly pleased with himself to have made Louis laugh, and turns to keep looking into the pantry. “Wait, I think I have some plain black one, you like that, right?”

Louis tries to ignore how flattered he is for Harry to remember the order he made in the bar a whole week ago, and just thanks him. With a steaming mug now in his frozen hands, Louis finally feels he is in the right place.

Outside it’s still storming, with lightening and thunders and all of that; Louis is so glad Harry invited him here, because for sure he didn’t want to wait for the bus to his flat, and for sure he didn’t want to go back _there_. There’s a comfortable silence in the small living room, interrupted just by the storm outside the window and by them drinking their tea.

“Do you wanna smoke and watch trash TV?” Harry asks out of nowhere.

“You really, _really_ know how to talk to a man,” Louis says, smiling behind his steaming mug. “But wait, I thought you didn’t smoke?” he then adds, remembering the awkward moment they had in front of _Desire_.

Harry snorts and puts his mug back on the table. “’M not talking about cigs here.”

“Oh, cheers lad! Haven’t had that in a while.”

Harry puffs a laugh again and goes into one of the rooms. “What are you even doing here?” he asks from there.

“Listen mate, you can’t ask me that,” Louis calls back, mug still in hand. He’s frozen, okay? He needs all the warmness he can get. Maybe he should’ve accepted the socks.

Harry’s back to the table in a second, with all his stuff ready. He sits down and starts grinding the weed, his tongue caught in the corner of his mouth, and it really shouldn’t be as adorable as it is. Louis would offer a hand, but Harry seems to have everything under his control, so he just says:

“I’ll keep looking through your stuff then,” pointing at the bookshelf.

Harry nods and it’s all the permission Louis needs: he gets back to where he had left, placing his mug on one of the shelves and kneeling again. The majority of the books seem to be Zayn’s, but next those there are some of anatomy as well, that are clearly Harry’s.

“I’ve studied on those,” Harry calls from where he’s sitting, like on a clue. “They’re nothing special, Zayn’s stuff is a lot prettier.”

“Yeah, but I’m not gonna touch those, they look too fancy,” Louis says, keeping browsing the shelf. One book catches his eye. “What about this one?” he points at it, not wanting to take it out: it looks so old, almost ancient. The back board is a light brown, with fine goldish writing.

“Mmmmh?” Harry raises his head and squints his eyes at him. “Oh, that was a gift. You can look at it if you want to.”

Louis doesn’t let it be said twice and picks it up as gently as he can. The cover is in the same light brown and the title is a very long string of Dutch words he doesn’t understand. He opens it, carefully: it’s clearly an anatomy book, an old reprint of something probably from the XVII century, maybe even the XVI; the drawings, clearly hand-made, are sharp and precise, representing the interior of the human body in a way even Louis knows they’re not scientifically accurate.

“It’s so beautiful,” he breathes. “It’s so old, and it’s conserved perfectly, and…” he turns to Harry, who’s licking the blunt shut: he looks unfazed at best. “… And you don’t care about it, do you?”

“Mh, no, not at all.” He stands up and gets near Louis. “Sorry?” he offers, not looking sorry at all. He lights up the blunt, and the soft orange fire lights up his face; his cheeks, hollow from inhaling, are just _obscene_. Louis places back the book and drives away the thought he just had.

He sighs in a joking way, leaning on the shelf. “That’s such a pity, I thought we had finally found something we had in common.”

“Hey, we have _a lot_ of things in common,” Harry retorts, puffing out the smoke and relaxing onto the bookshelf like him. He sounds more affronted than necessary; that seems to be something he does often.

Louis was clearly joking, but now he’s intrigued to hear what Harry has to say about them. He picks up the blunt from Harry hand and takes a slow drag: god, he missed it so much. This is such good quality weed, too, it’s almost sweet. He hopes Harry has enough for them. “Like what?” he challenges back, exhaling lazily, savouring it.

He looks back at Harry, who was staring at him, without even trying to be subtle. They’re so close, there are just inches between them: they’re mirroring each other in their slouching, relaxed poses. Harry’s hair is a mess, after being held down by his hat, but it’s getting back its curly shape; it’s so long, past his ears. Louis wants to run his hands through it. When Louis locks eyes with him again, he seems to focus back to what he was asked, and after a beat of silence he offers:

“… A polite sense of confusion for modern art?” He doesn’t sound sure at all. Bless him.

“Point,” Louis confirms with a smirk. “I’d say, also, disaster roommates.”

“Hey, he’s not a disaster,” Harry complains, unable to not defend him, even shortly after he cleaned the whole living room for him. “He’s just… in the middle of something.”

“So, not even that.” Louis’ having fun playing with him.

“No, but there’s…” Harry starts immediately, but clearly has no direction to continue. In the indecision he takes his blunt back. That’s fair.

_This unbearable vulnerability? This feeling of longing for a home? For a place that’s just for us? For someone to accepts us just in the way we are? _Louis’ brain supplies him. He knows Harry feels those things, too. He has seen past his joyful façade, for a split of a second, while sitting on those humid stairs after the march.

Or maybe he’s just projecting, once again.

“Well, things in common are overrated in any case,” Louis says when it’s obvious they’re not going any further than that. He takes back his mug and goes sits on the couch, breaking whatever kind of atmosphere was trying to be born between them.

Harry, after a moment of confusion, like he can’t understand how Louis suddenly so distant from him, goes to sit next to him, on his right. He nearly sits half on his lap, to be precise, then seems to think better of it and moves away a bit. Louis wouldn’t have minded.

“You promised me trash TV,” Louis reminds him.

“I can give you the worst of trash,” Harry says, picking the remote up and putting his cup down. “Or the best?” he wonders, turning on the TV.

“I see the philosophy’s back.” Louis grins at him.

The channel they land on is currently full of people screaming. Harry starts laughing immediately and Louis’ left confused, his eyes going from Harry to the TV and back.

“What the fuck?” he says. Like on a clue, a woman on the screen starts crying.

“You stumbled in the best possible week for trash TV,” Harry says, still laughing. “Basically that one,” he points to the crying woman. “Last year said she married this guy, okay? No one has ever seen him ‘cause he’s _reserved_, or something like that. And said they’ve adopted two kids.”

“Awww.” The word escapes Louis’ mouth without his permission. He’s still confused, though. He doesn’t understand a single word but he’s sure all of this wouldn’t make much sense anyway.

“Yeah, it seemed something nice, right? But that other one,” he points another woman who’s still screaming. The host is trying to shush both of the parties but she’s failing as well. “She revealed that said guy doesn’t even exist, there are no kids, and that she did all of this to remain relevant in the Trash… Kingdom?”

“You’re taking the piss.” _No way_.

Harry has another fit of laughter and collapses on Louis, who out of habit moves his arm to make him fit better into his frame.

“I swear, they’ve been going on like this for days now.” Harry gets comfortable on Louis’ side and takes another drag from the blunt. “They keep digging up stuff ‘cause they all have dirt on each other, and we’re all here just watching them.” He laughs again, softer, and passes the joint to Louis.

“Please, translate me what they’re saying.” Louis can’t take his eyes away from the TV now, he’s mesmerized.

“_If anything_, please learn Dutch to watch this, _please_,” Harry says, and starts translating the best he can the various screaming.

Louis learns a lot about the whole situation, about the people involved, the kind of trash Dutch people apparently like, all while they keep smoking, with a more and more relaxed Harry cuddle on his side. Once he gets a grip on it, he starts laughing at them even despite the language barrier: they’re all so ridiculous, the whole situation is absurd. Even if, he has to admit, it’s more probable that the weed is having its effect on him. He feels serene and warm like he hasn’t for months.

Harry is now almost lying on him, and his weight makes him feel calm, secure. He once read something about how having a heavy weight on your body makes you relaxed, but he’s sure this is not purely physiological. Harry smells so good, he always does, of something simple and sweet. His head fits in the hook of Louis’ neck like it’s the only thing it’s supposed to do, and his hair is soft and tinkly, but not enough for Louis to move away from it. Louis can see, in the dimmed light of the room and from the cold one of the TV, his chipped purple nail polish, still the same of their march.

The show keeps going and they keep smoking, laughing like maniacs and drinking their tea. Outside, the sky’s still watering the city, but here in Harry’s flat, everything is warm and cosy.

Harry moves away from him and Louis feels the cold air on his right side before he realises Harry is now sitting now properly. He observes him, curious, as he puts away the butt of their finished blunt and then picks up his mug back again, taking a sip of a tea that’s probably cold by now; then he rolls up his sleeves and makes another one. Time’s stretching out, and Louis finds the words to address what he’s thinking about just when Harry’s done.

“Woah, you got some tatts on you, lad,” Louis says, already feeling his mouth difficult to use and his accent a lot thicker than before. He really hasn’t smoke in a while.

“Uh? Oh, yeah.” Harry turns his arm for Louis to see, blunt between his lips. Louis doesn’t catch much, maybe a mermaid and some flowers, but they’re a lot. “They’re not much,” Harry says, like he can read Louis’ mind and doesn’t agree with what Louis just thought. “I have so much space left, see?” he shows the other arm, that is almost spotless.

“Don’t know lad, those seem a lot to me.” Louis tugs Harry just the tiniest little bit. What can he do, _he’s cold_ and he has missed this too much to not fully enjoy it now. He definitively should’ve accepted the socks, but he could never ask them now and having Harry abandon him for what, three whole minutes? No way in hell.

Harry crushes on Louis again, and he feels better instantly. “Do you have some?” he mumbles, his words a bit garbled.

“Mh, no, none,” Louis says, taking the blunt back.

“Really?” Harry sounds surprised.

“Yeah, I don’t… I like them on other people, right, but not on me. Never got too convinced, never found anything that made me say ‘_I want that on my skin forever_’, y’know?” he takes his drag and gives it back to Harry.

“But it’s not about that,” Harry protests, moving around the blunt in his hand. “You always end up regretting those, ‘cause you think about them too much. You should just… have fun with them.”

“Do you regret some of yours?” Louis asks, curious.

“Of course I do. Those are my favourite.”

Louis barks out a loud laugh. This guy is so weird. “Like what?”

“Like I… I wrote ‘big’, on my big toe.”

Louis laughs again, louder this time, even louder when Harry says again, “What? ‘Ts one of my faves. It has character.” He can’t stop laughing, and, unable to show his fondness he squeezes Harry, who’s laughing, too, and just let himself being manhandled.

“I also have a butterfly on my stomach, ‘cause, you know,” Harry adds, already smiling.

“Oh Harry c’mon,” Louis laughs again, throwing his head back on the sofa. “Does that expression even exist is your language?” he asks, turning to look at him.

Harry’s face is a lot nearer than expected, so near his features seem blurred, and all Louis can see is softness. Warmth. He always feels warm when Harry is around him.

“’Course it does,” Harry frowns and Louis wants to smother the wrinkle in his forehead, wants to push the corner of his mouth, wants to make Harry laugh again. “One says, _ik heb vlinders in mijn buik_.”

“_Ik heb… vlinders_?” Louis tries.

“_Vlinders_, yeah, butterflies, _in mijn buik_, in my stomach,” Harry repeats, staring at him. He looks so serious, like… like what? Louis feel confused, a second passes he doesn’t feel as warm as before. Harry is so near him he can feel his breath on his neck, and he’s not understanding why this moment feels so different from before.

“_Ik voel nu vlinders in mijn buik_,” Harry whispers again, and Louis knows he said something slightly different now, but he doesn’t know _what_, he doesn’t know what he just said and he doesn’t like this uncertainty.

“I’m, uh.” He gets up, shaking Harry off him. “I’mma take a piss. Where’s the toilet?”

“Uh.” Harry sounds confused from behind him. Louis doesn’t turn around to look at him. “’Ts the green door in front of you. Yeah, that one,” he adds when Louis goes to push it.

Louis closes the door behind him, never turning around, and exhales. He goes to look at himself in the mirror, and the only thing he sees is the mess of his hair through the blurriness of his eyes.

_What the fuck am I doing, _he asks himself, getting closer to his reflection.

He knows what Harry was doing just now, he knows what he was trying to do before, when they were leaning on the bookshelf, or even before that, when they were in front of _Desire_. He knows what he was doing when he gave him his number and offered to go together to the manifestation.

He knew all that, and it was fine with him, because he knew that whatever could be happening, he wouldn’t lead him on or make him doubt his interaction with him, because he was _that _sure he didn’t want anything romantic to do with him, or to anyone at all for the matter. He was certain of that. He was sure Harry could never misread his actions because he never leaned back to him, never made those moments seem like he was interested as well.

So why is this difficult now? Why does he feel like he’s _not_ leading him, and not because he’s not clear with his action, with his indifference, but because whatever Harry wants, he wants it, too? When he started to strain himself to not fall into all the moments Harry laid down for them? When he has started to think he wanted to seize, pursue them?

When has he started to think he would want to kiss him, too?

_It’s just because you’re horny_, his brain supplies him. _Because you haven’t slept with anyone in months, and he’s hot, he’s interested, and he’s here. Because you’re lonely and bored._

But it’s not just that, it’s not as easy as that, he’s sure of it.

Louis knows what this easiness is, or better, what _could be_, and it’s not just horniness. He recognises the calm, the sympathy, the glow that starts in his chest when they’re together.

And he doesn’t want it, he refuses to accept it.

_I met him a week ago. I’ve seen him three times_, he reminds himself. _It’s just the weed_, he tries to tell himself.

He washes his face with cold water, hoping to gain some judgement back, but his head remains clouded and he’s as puzzled as before. He drinks some of it as well, hoping it will clear his mind. He has to stop smoking.

The only thing he knows is, whatever he could want when his mind is like this, he shouldn’t do anything. No matter how Harry’s lips are the pinkest shade he’s ever seen, and his skin his so soft and he smells so good and-

_That’s enough_. This is exactly what he shouldn’t be doing, at least not now.

He takes a big breath, exhaling from his nose, slowly, and walks back into the room.

Harry’s right where he left him, but now he’s staring at the screen like it is going to reveal him the most important answers in the universe. Louis gets closer, curious, and sees he’s changed the channels and is now watching some documentary about whales. That makes him grin: seeing documentaries while stoned it’s one of the greatest pleasures of life.

“Did I miss something?” Louis asks, plopping next to him. He had told himself to sit straight, to not stick to Harry as much as before, but has soon as he’s back into the soft cocoon made of skin and clothes he forgets all about it and in a second they’re back to cuddling just like before.

_So what, I cuddle with my mates all the time_. He doesn’t sound convincing not even to himself.

“Last TV show finished like, half an hour ago,” Harry says, still looking at the TV. He doesn’t sound sad or disappointed or any of that. Louis’ glad.

“They’re your favourite animal?” Louis nudges him softly.

“Mh, could be, but I’m more into… panthers.”

He’s still smoking and when Louis refuses the blunt, he keeps it for himself. He’s so rapt by the documentary, Louis stops asking him stuff. Instead, he starts looking at him, even if he knows that’s a dangerous game to play. Harry has the tiniest ears he’s ever seen, and a mole near his mouth, on his left side of the chin, the one Louis’ seeing now. He presses it without even thinking about it, glad to have the weed as an excuse. Harry laughs at that and recoils just the tiniest little bit, to then get close to Louis again, with his back on his chest, their left hands aligned.

Louis raises his hand to his face, with Harry still to engrossed by whales to care about it, and look at his tattoos better. He has a cross near his thumb, a padlock on the left side of the wrist and a quote on his outer wrists, that says-

“I like this one, it's very... 2013?” he says, looking at the ‘_I can’t change_’, written in clear letters, all caps.

“Mmmh, ‘twas 2012, but yeah, nailed it.” Harry turns to look at his tattoo, too, like he had forgotten it was there. “Kinda regret it, kinda love it.”

“How come?” Louis wonders, interested. “Is one of those ‘_I’ve thought too much about it_’ that you were saying before?”

“No, not that, just… we came out in the same period and,” Harry starts snickering at his own pun. Louis pokes him on the ribs to make him stop but it has the opposite effect, making Harry blowing out in full laughter. Louis sighs, faking annoyance, with a big smile on his face.

“I mean, I came out before the song, but then I fell into a weird place, so I thought I had to have it, and I had to have it in a place that it's impossible to hide. So I could look at it and remember about, uh… my chore?”

“Weird how?” Louis can’t help but ask.

Harry shrugs, even if he’s half lying down. That’s a talent in itself. “Don’t know. I was in this whole headspace where I couldn't stop obsessing about what others thought of me, like, no matter what, and it was just so… heavy.”

“Oh, darling,” he whispers, squeezing him. “That’s so terrible, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah but like, I started to dress like a douchebag so I could… blend in, I suppose? But I always looked... I don't know, like a douchebag, yeah,” Harry snorts.

“I… I can't image what you mean.” Louis’ confused. He thought they were going to have a heart to heart, not talking about wrong fashion choices.

“Okay, okay, wait, look at this,” he says, excited, and fumbles to his right side of the couch until he finds his phone. He unlocks it, goes to the cloud, and clicks on a folder named _H_. What a narcissist.

He clicks on a photo, and well, Louis starts laughing immediately, because this is not what he was expecting when he heard ‘_I was in a weird headspace, it was so heavy_’, because the Harry in the picture looks, as someone would rightfully say, like a _douchebag_.

His hair is much shorter than now, much curlier; he has a lazy, half grin on, enough to show his dimple but not enough to be a happy smile, too cheeky. He’s wearing a pastel blazer, of all things, with the sleeves half rolled up and a _bowtie_.

“You look so… spoiled,” he says, in between the laughers.

“I know, right? And I acted all like… like-”

“Like a prick. The word you’re looking for is prick.” In the next photo he has a fake flower pinned over another pastel blazer. “You look like a prick here,” he repeats.

“Yeah, exactly. That I was,” Harry agrees, scrolling through various pictures that present him surrounded by boys and girls dressed as posh as him. Louis can smell their Abercrombie cologne just looking at them.

“Like you could say '_lost my car's keys so I bought a new one_'.”

“Louuuu,” he drags out, pouting.

“And with who you were supposed to blend in, exactly?” Louis can’t stop, Harry’s looks through the years are too much for him, with his colour-block cardigan and his kakis pants.

“Oh c’mon! I bet you didn't look that great either at a certain point of your life,” Harry blurts out. He keeps scrolling through the picture, though. Louis doesn’t know why he is still giving him material.

“Well of course, 2012 was a weird year for me too.”

“Like what?” Harry raises his eyes to meet Louis’. He’s breath-taking and Louis doesn’t care. Louis shouldn’t care.

“Like, I moved to Manchester for Uni and I had this moment of freedom, I used to wear the worst things, but like, the _worst_,” he repeats, stressing the last word.

“Yeah, but like _what_,” Harry insists.

“Red skinny jeans?” Louis offers.

“You?!” Harry almost shouts, his eyes bugging off his head.

Louis laughs again. “I swear mate. And a lot of stripes. And braces. What I was thinking is still a mystery.”

“Please, _please_, tell me you have pics,” Harry begs him, still looking at him with his big eyes.

“God, no, no way, I _burned_ those.” He giggles again. “Thank God the past’s in the past, yeah?”

Harry pouts at him again, clearly disappointed in Louis’ lack of sources for his claims. “Yeah, some of it,” he mumbles, still scrolling his pictures mindlessly. The pictures start to change, and with them Harry’s style: the blazers go away to be replaced by-

“You had this hair?!” Louis almost shouts when he sees the newer pictures of him. Harry has long locks now, but they’re nothing compared to what he’s seeing now: his hair go past his shoulders, past his chest, nearly; it’s curlier than now, and it is accompanied by the most genuine of Harry’s smiles, with dimples and bright eyes. He also has a printed, colourful shirt, mostly undone, something very different from what he has been wearing since Louis met him, which has been oversized sweaters and lined pants. He still looks unique in his clothes, but those in the photos are much bolder.

“Umh, yeah.” Harry doesn’t sound has sure or has carefree as he was ten seconds ago: he tilts his phone away from Louis’ eyes, like he doesn’t want him to see this moment of his life, even though it makes no sense, because he looks incredible in the pics that keep popping up on his gallery. In all the pics he has his hair perfectly styled, loud shirts, perfect skin. They all seem from a catalogue rather than the same folder as the pics form 2012.

“You look incredible,” Louis says, sincerely.

“… Yeah. I did.” he sounds bitter though, like for some reason Louis saying that upsets him, and Louis doesn’t want any of that.

“I love your long hair, wish I could pull it off.”

Harry looks surprised, like he wasn’t expecting Louis to still comment on that among all the other things, and turns to squint his eyes at him, like he’s trying to image Louis with his own hair. “Oh, I’m sure you could.”

Louis snorts. “You really don't have to lie to me. How come you cut it off?” he wonders. “It really suited you.”

“Thank you,” he starts. He remains in silence for a bit, his gaze lost, looking at the whales still on the screen. “I… I guess I got bored?” that sounds more like a question than a statement.

“You don't sound very convinced,” Louis teases him, nudging him with his elbow.

“Yeah, ‘cause I wasn’t. At all.” He sighs. “I’m trying to grow it again, my neck is cold,” he adds.

“Yeah, yeah I can see that,” Louis says with a smile, passing a hand through the curls. It’s as soft and as lovely as he had thought.

They remain in silence, looking at the ocean on the screen. A thunder echoes outside.

“But yeah, I mean,” Harry starts again, breaking the silence. “I… I got the tat ‘cause it reminded me of my true self, in a way, you know?”

“Mh-mh.” Louis’ still playing with his hair.

“And I got it here,” he points at it. “On my outer wrist, so I can always look at it and remember for what it stands for. And it’s… ‘ts not like I can cover it. And I love it and it means so much, but… sometimes I still think it was an ‘_out and too proud mistake_’. No, wait,” he sighs, annoyed with his words. “Mistake's too harsh. But like… no one has ever asked me to change.”

“Like, you did everything by yourself?” Louis suggests.

“Yeah, kinda. I just went through too many phases, ‘nd this was for my coming out, but it became for so many other things. So now when I look at it, I don’t think about that. It’s not that important to me, anymore.”

“Yeah, I get it, you know?” Louis starts. He sighs, thinking of how he should say this. “You get this... Exuberance? When you first come out. Like it becomes the most important thing about yourself.”

“Yeah, exactly. And then it... Shift.”

“Yeah, that. It becomes part of yourself, important as other things. Part of your identity, not your _whole_ identity.”

“But ‘ts not the thing you want to shout out in the world the most, anymore.”

“Yeah, ‘ts ‘cause when you... When the... When positive stuff about it comes from just yourself, you just repeat ‘em over and over. Studied that in sociology,” Louis mumbles to himself.

“Mh-mh.”

“But it’s still… I mean it's still so?” Louis can’t find the right words. Everything is blurry. “Heavy? ‘Ts still so heavy, sometimes.”

Harry frowns, slowly, like their words are being dragged through molasses before they come to each other’s ears. “Is it? I'm sorry.” He sounds so sad. Louis didn’t want to make him sad.

“No, no, like, I meant like…” what was trying to say? Why did he bring this up? “Have you ever taken a look into adoption stuff?” Ok, that’s _for sure_ not what he wanted to say. He has no boundaries left; he’s going for the big weapons here.

The silence by Harry’s part keeps stretching out. “… No?” he says, in the end, dazed.

See, that makes sense. Why would he, he’s not even twenty-five yet. So why Louis did it much sooner than that, and why he has the nerve to even feel upset by Harry’s answer?

“It’s just, it's already so complicated, which makes sense, they’re trusting you with a kid, which, okay, I get it, but then you say you're in a gay relationship and everything gets _a lot_ more complicated. It takes years, to the least,” he says, all in one breath, slurring his words. “Don’t know how it works here, but in England ‘ts a mess,” he adds, more to himself than to Harry.

Harry doesn’t respond to that, and Louis focuses back on the whales. They’re so big and blue. He wonders if he could hug one and then swim with it, riding it like Goku did with the dragon from Dragon Ball. What was its name? Sharingan? Charizard? He’s confused.

“… You looked into adoption papers?” a voice on his right asks him. He turns to it. Harry still there and he’s still on his couch. Harry’s staring at him. Everything’s confusing. Louis doesn’t catch all his emotions but can see he’s surprised, or maybe more shocked than that.

Did he do what? Oh, the adoption stuff. _Shit, he did_. They were having a conversation. “I… I did, yeah.”

“Just out of curiosity or... With purpose?” Harry’s voice seems to come from another room.

See, that’s a funny question to ask. Even more because it doesn’t have a single answer. Did he do it for himself? Out of curiosity? Of course he did. Did he have a purpose, meaning a long term, stable relationship in which he could’ve brought up the topic of kids? That he had, too. But had his relationship really served a purpose in their case, when he already knew David didn’t want children and never would have? Well, he had discovered that it didn’t.

Louis doesn’t have a single answer to give back to Harry, so he gives him none. He remains in silence.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers. “You don’t have to answ-”

“It did,” Louis interrupts him. “It was with a purpose. But it's over, so.” He shrugs like it’s long gone water under the bridge. Like he’s _so_ over it.

He is, he is, _he is_.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Harry repeats.

Louis moves to look at him better. He’s frowning and he’s clearly sad and confused. Louis can’t make out his features with precision anymore, and he likes it.

“Don’t be.” He touches his face, softly. His skin is smooth, his stubble soft. “Things happen for a reason, I believe. Maybe we just weren’t meant to be.”

But they _were_. Or at least that’s how Louis had felt for the last four years of his life, while they were living the most exciting years of their life, always together, always happy, always excited, always doing too many things, too many projects, always meeting new people. Living London’s life at its finest.

But maybe they just weren’t, and Louis’ learning that now. He had always thought they were going to spend the rest of their lives together, he had thought that since he was twenty-two.

“Sometimes things…” Harry sighs. He sounds so tired. “They don’t work out how we want them to. And we can just accept it and move on,” he whispers, his face squashed on Louis’ shoulder.

“Yeah. That, too.” Louis swallows the knot he feels in his throat. “If we only could learn _how_,” he says to himself, too quietly for Harry to hear him.

Harry doesn’t replay to him, doesn’t say anything back. Louis wants to look at him, but he feels so heavy from his weariness, the rain, their chat, the weed. His eyelids feel heavy, they burn every time Louis blinks. He figures he won’t hurt anyone if he closes his eyes for a second or two.

So he does, and when he opens them back again he has no idea of how much time has passed. The TV is the first thing his eyes focus on: the documentary is over and now some commercial is on. Louis tries to move around but Harry is laying over him, snoring softly. He’s long asleep, enough for Louis to slide him off himself.

He doesn’t feel as lightheaded as before: still a bit woozy, but the nap has helped him. He goes to the kitchen and drinks a couple of glass of water, then he walks slowly to a window, and sees it stopped raining outside. He’s not completely sober, but for sure he is sober enough to go back to his flat, and even more to know how that’s the best option for him.

Behind him Harry hums. Louis turns to him and he’s frowning, not much, but enough to make Louis going back next to him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispers. Maybe it’s weird, maybe he shouldn’t call him that, but he’s still high enough to brush it off. Harry for sure won’t remember this in the morning and Louis just really wants to say it. It comes from his heart.

Harry mumbles something intelligible.

“I’m going back to my flat, okay?” Louis continues.

This time Harry manages to say a very upset _‘nooo’_.

Louis has to fight all his instincts to not get back on that couch with him.

“We’ll talk later, or tomorrow, okay?”

“Y'cn sleep're,” Harry grumbles again, his voice muffled by how his face is squashed into the cushions. “Z’s not ‘re. ‘Don’t like sleeping alone.”

“I- I have work for tomorrow.” It’s only half of a lie, the only real point is that he can’t sleep here. Not in Harry’s flat. He has to be alone for some hours or even _days_ and understand what happened before. He has to reanalyse what happened with a clean mind: then he will know that whatever he thought, it was just the effects of the weed mixed with his loneliness. Nothing more.

“But 'ts... _De sofa’s_... _comfortabel_.” Harry still has his eyes closed; he’s talking in his sleep, half in English and half in Dutch.

Louis thinks that maybe he should make him go to bed or carry him there, but when he asks that to Harry he just replies something very confusing about wanting to wait for Zayn to show up, and then goes back to snore softly. Louis figure it’s best to leave him there and puts over him a blanket he finds at the other end of the couch. He watches as Harry relaxes his legs and gets comfortable under the new-founded warmth, frowning less and less, until he looks serene.

Louis puts his jacket on, checks the phone for the first time in hours (_it’s very, very late_, he finds out) and decides last minute to write Harry a note that simply says _“thank you for the night, went back to mine x louis”_, which he leaves near him.

He puts on his wet shoes last, cringing at the feeling, and gets out in the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit! Hij heeft een zooitje achtergelaten: shit! He has left a mess  
Wat een pannenkoek: what a pancake (I’ve read online this is a genuine insult people use in Netherlands, and I’m praying that is actually true)  
Hoe kun je al je rotzooi op deze manier achterlaten: How can you leave all your shit like this  
Ik voel nu vlinders in mijn buik: I feel butterflies in my stomach, now  
******************  
[ Here’s Amsterdam light festival of last year ](https://amsterdamlightfestival.com/en/edition-7) (the one of this year starts tomorrow! Exciting times, I know).  
[ Transmission ](https://amsterdamlightfestival.com/en/artworks/transmission), [ A.N.N. ](https://amsterdamlightfestival.com/en/artworks/ann), [ Desire ](https://amsterdamlightfestival.com/en/artworks/desire), [ Portam Civitatis ](https://amsterdamlightfestival.com/en/artworks/archestextures-portam-civitatis) and [ Light A Wish ](https://amsterdamlightfestival.com/en/artworks/light-a-wish)  
Louis' thoughts about the puffball were inspired by his [ "reminds me of being a kid" ](https://www.instagram.com/p/BC12VtCL4QS/?hl=it) post on instagram, aka the softest and most precious picture to ever exists. Love u Lou  
***************  
Zarry being best friends forever may be the biggest plot twist of this fic tbh (it’s fictional work I’ll do whatever I want) 
> 
> Again, feedback of any kind is super appreciated, as well as kudos and comments. Let me know what you think!
> 
> As always, [ my tumblr ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/), [ the fic post ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/post/625001364010024960/amsterdam-with-you), [ ‘awy’ tag on my tumblr](https://flamboyo-xx.tumblr.com/tagged/awy), and [ the playlist for the fic ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL5momjAjTuX6twPBNWmdXHrC46ATa8szU)
> 
> The next update should be on the 1st of December, but since I’m going to visit my family this weekend I’m not 100% sure I’ll make it. Worst case scenario I’ll upload it on the 2nd. Either way, see ya soon!


	4. 1st of December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: alcohol, nightmares, loads of feelings, the usual

On Saturday morning Louis wakes up with the promised phone call to Lottie in mind, so he does that before anything else can happen that would make him postpone it even more.

Lottie picks up the FaceTime call at the fourth ring. She’s dressed up, like she’s ready to go out, but she has her glasses on. Louis asks her if he's interrupting her studies, since she wears them only for reading.

“Nah, don't worry,” she replies, closing her laptop she was indeed using. “I was finishing this paper-”

“Shall I call you later? For when it’s due?”

“Tomorrow evening, _dad_. Don’t worry, I’m almost done, I'll do that before lunch. But I’ve to go to brunch with Sam in like, forty minutes.”

Louis frowns. “With Sam?” he asks. “Are you still in Manchester?”

“Mh-mh,” is everything she says back to him, busy with cleaning her desk of the various markers and the books she was reading.

“… You didn’t go home this weekend?” He feels like he’s repeating himself and the same concept over and over, but he can’t wrap his mind around the fact that Lottie _chose_ to remain in Manchester instead of visiting, while she has the possibility to do so. But then again, how many times did he went back home when he was at Uni? For sure not every weekend like she and Fizzy do.

How he would go home if he had the possibility. He’d jump at the chance without thinking it twice.

“I'll go next weekend, I need to finish some stuff for Uni,” Lottie is saying in the background, reminding him once again how his focus just keeps disappearing.

Lottie asks him about his week, and they end up chatting about everything that happened in their life this past week: the book and the march for Louis, and Sam, Uni and some potential internships for Lottie. She’s sunny and smiles a lot during their conversation, clearly pleased to hear from him and at the prospect of seeing her boyfriend soon. Their chat is lovely, but it's not long before Louis trips over the gigantic elephant in the room. It's innocent, on his behalf. He only asks:

“How are Fizzy and the twins, by the way? Tell them hi from me,” he says without thinking about it, while he’s organising his schedule for replying to his work emails. When he turns to the screen again, Lottie’s expression has turn ice cold.

“I can tell them that. Nothing more,” she says, her tone biting. The whole mood of the conversation shifts in a split of a second.

Louis stops his movements, caught off guard. “… Meaning?” he asks, getting ready for whatever Lottie might tell him.

“Meaning they need their brother as much as I do, Louis. Meaning you should hear from them more often than this.” She’s dropped everything she was doing, too, and she’s staring at him with a firm expression. She’s not even angry, but the confidence of her expression impress him.

Louis has only a moment to admire how much she looks like their mum. “Don't you think that I know that?” is what he grunts back. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, not now, not like this, but since she started it he can’t just dismiss it.

“’M starting to think you don't?” she challenges him.

Louis sees red. “How- how can you even _say_ something like that, I-”

“You didn't call any of us for an entire week, Louis. They need you,” she reiterates.

Like he doesn’t know that, like he’s a dickhead, a stupid fuck, and not their brother as well.

“I know! I know that!” he almost screams. He throws a pen he was holding in his left hand out of rage. He’s acting like a madman, but how _dare_ her to say something like that. “I had a presentation this week, Lotts and a ton of work and-”

“So what? You can't even reply to their texts?” The worst part of this is how calm and collected she is. And she has all the meaning to act like that, because she’s right, and both of them know that.

“It's not like I do that on purpose,” he blurts. “I just had a lot to do and-”

“I’m the one who sits through them checking their blue checks all week, Louis, not you. They miss you,” she interrupts him again.

“I know, I know, I…” he’s still shouting but suddenly he stops, not looking at her anymore. He knows she’s right and how useless is to fight about something like this. He shouldn’t scream at her for something that’s totally his fault. He swallows, hard, and fixes his gaze on her again. She’s sad and preoccupied, not smug like Louis had feared.

Why did he even fear she could be smug, or happy to have proved a point? She would never do something like this to him. They’re a family. She said what she said because she cares for him, not the opposite. Something is happening in his perception of the world. He always expects the worst from everyone, even in cases like this, when he _should_ know Lottie would never make him feel guilty or plain bad without a reason.

He doesn’t understand what it could be.

“I’m sorry Lotts,” he says in the end. “I know, I’ve been a shitty brother and-”

“I’ve never said that,” she interrupts him again. Her frown had deepened. “That’s… no, just, _no_. None of us has ever thought that, okay Lou?”

Louis shrugs. It’s like what, 10 in the morning? And he already wants to go back to bed. “Yeah, okay. I’m sorry I haven’t called, but it’s been such a busy week and… you know.” He shrugs again. He doesn’t even have a decent excuse, because there are _none_, not when he knows what the truth is.

How can he say to her: “_I miss you too much to call you_”? What sense does that have? None. But that’s how he feels. He can’t bear to look at them knowing he just got up and went away from all of that because of a broken heart.

It was selfish on his part, and now he’s paying the consequences.

“But is not just that, is it?” Lottie asks him, gently. She’s nearer the camera now, like she’s trying to nudge Louis through the screen. “And you won't tell me, or Liam, or Fizzy what it really is. We can see how down you are, most of the time, and we just… we wish we could do something for you. Like you have always done for all of us.”

Louis sighs, looking down. All he wishes for is for all of this to never have happened. He wishes he could go back in time and never move to this stupid, ugly city, that has given to him just heartache and loneliness. “It’s nothing,” he says, trying to convince himself, too. “I'll be better when I'll be home, okay?” he offers with a wobbly smile.

She makes a chocked noise. “I want you to be alright even when you’re _there_, Lou. I wish you could be alright _always_.” She exhales loudly. “And I know, _I know_, you don't like to talk about your own problems, or the stuff you go through, but I'm always here for you, you know that, right?”

Louis can’t see in her pixeled image if her eyes are as teary as his. _This is too heavy for 10 in the morning_, he thinks again. “I know, Lotts.” He fakes a cough to recollect his thoughts. “And I’m always here for you, too. Always. It's just...” he sighs, “I miss you, okay? I think I made a mistake to come here. I should be there with you all, not down here.”

“You can't cut your own wings just for us, Lou. You made a brave decision, and we’re all so proud of you.” Her smile is wobbly as well. Louis just wants to hug her tightly and tell her that nothing will harm her as long as he’s here for her.

“I know, it’s just…” he what he says instead, but he can’t finish his own sentence. He doesn’t have any words to offer her. Everything’s too heavy. “I'll be better. It's just three more weeks, isn't it? Twenty days, to be precise. What more could happen?”

She fakes a pout. “I hope something good happens, you know? You deserve all the happiness that exists, Lou.”

Louis’ heart clenches at that. She doesn’t know, but she almost quoted their mom word for word, from when she grabbed his hand, tightly, and said, looking straight into his eyes, “_you deserve some sweet happiness_”.

He misses her so much. He’ll miss her forever.

“You too, Lotts, you too. I love you loads. Loads,” he repeats. Lottie should know. All of his siblings should be sure of that.

“We love you too, Lou, so much, okay? Please, know that.” She smiles at him again and checks the hour. “I have to go in like, two minutes now.” She stands up from where she was sitting and starts stuffing her bag.

“Sure, sure, we don’t want sweet Sam to be waiting for us, do we?”

“Sam can wait for me as much as I want, but ‘m not sure about the reservation.”

Louis bites his lip, smiling. Then he remembers another thing he wanted to say. “One last thing Lotts, I have a... Not-that-great news,” he sighs, mentally dealing for what he’s going to say.

Lottie stops giving her attention to her bag. “... Shot it.”

“I won't be able to fly home this Friday. The 7th,” he adds after a beat.

It’s Lottie’s turn to sigh. “I know what day this Friday is, Lou,” she says, smiling the best she can.

He feels like a failure. “I'm sorry,” he starts. “I tried, I did, but-”

“Wait, but we already knew that? Like, you told us months ago.” She’s frowning like she doesn’t understand why Louis brought this topic up again.

“Yeah, I know, I just tried to make it anyways, but then they set the printing for Tuesday, and with the Christmas sales it's impossible. I- I tried, really.”

“I'm sorry as you are for that, Lou. We will miss you, but we can have a chat on Skype all together in the evening or something, okay?” She checks the time again. “I have to go for real now.”

“Yeah, of course. Say _hi _to Sam from me, yeah?”

“Will do.” She’s smiling like at the start of their conversation again.

They hang up and Louis is left alone with his thoughts. They cloud him and before he can do anything about it, the chant _I’m a shitty brother _fills up his brain.

He knows it’s not true, and he knows Lottie didn’t say any of those things to make him feel bad about himself or guilty, that she’s only worried about their sibling and about him, too; but he cares, too, and he should act like it. That’s his job, and it matters to him so much more than any missed book fair on the planet. He can’t believe he actually made them sad just because he was sad and disappointed, too, hundreds of miles away. He can’t believe he refused to call them just because he didn’t have the heart to face them, instead of thinking about what they could’ve felt as well.

When he had texted Harry after those dark days, the only thing he could think of was: _it’s this easy, it really is, I should always try to connect with others, I know now I’ll feel so much better after_, then he went on and didn’t apply that to the people he loves the most.

But of course he didn’t: they’re much more difficult to deal with, because he feels so much more responsibilities towards them. Every day he doesn’t call home, he feels their distance getting bigger and bigger, and the possibility for him to reach out even harder. And every time he does call, his heart breaks at the sight of how much he’s missing, while confined down here.

He just feels like there’s no bright side, no matter what he does.

The chant doesn’t stop, and he starts to believe in it after a while. He wants to wine to someone, but who? He constantly feels like he doesn’t have enough relationship, that there’s always something he can’t say to anyone, because none of his friends would give him the right support.

He can’t text Liam, can’t text Calvin or Oli about something like this, for sure he can’t say that to his sisters themselves. He can’t stop thinking about how his friendships are getting shattered, and he just feels lonely. Homesick. Empty.

Out of the blue, he decides to text Harry. It’s just like Thursday: he doesn’t know him enough to feel embarrassed by what he says, he feels no responsibility in his regards, and he has the physical need to vent to somebody. He just writes to him:

_I'm a shit brother_

He’s sitting on his couch once again, head rested on the back, gaze lost on the ceiling. Harry's replay arrives a lot sooner than he thought:

**You tuck me in yesterday**  
**And I've met you last week**  
**So I'll call bullshit on that**

_Haven't check on them for a week straight_, Louis types, bitter. Harry doesn’t have six siblings who count on him. He doesn’t get it.

**So what?**  
**Am I a shitty friend for not calling lux?**

_Abs not_, he replies instantly. Their situations are too different to be compared like this.  
_You have so much on you_  
_And you miss her so much it hurts to hear her so distant from you_

He realises too late that he just gave Harry exactly what he wanted and had talked about his own problems rather than Harry’s.

**You replied to yourself**, Harry is ready to replay.  
**I bet you're an incredible brother :)**  
**And also**  
**You told me the perfect solution for when you feel like this**

Louis sighs. Harry's right, he knows what he should do: he just needed the extra push.

_I’ll call them now_

**You go brother!!!**

So Louis does: he calls all of them, one by one. It takes a couple of hours, all of them need to update him about every detail of their lives, and Louis listens to them feeling his heart bursting with love. The calls end just around lunch time, when his ears are fried. He didn't do anything for work, never got the chance to send all those emails as he should’ve, but he's so much happier than before, and he doesn’t care about those emails at all.

It’s not as if a few calls could cancel the fact that he had been ignoring them for a week, but he knows all of them are happier now. He shouldn’t think the weekend as his only opportunity to call them.

Since he already has his phone in hand and his mood has been lifted up significatively since his chat with Lottie, he decides to give a call to Liam, too, who answers at the first ring, which is strange. Liam’s always too busy to answer the phone.

“Oiooooiiii,” he calls, by tradition. He moves to the kitchen to start his lunch, even if it’s way too early. All those chats about feelings got him hungry.

The Liam in the phone looks tired, but what else is new. “Hiii.”

“Where's Wonderboy?” Louis asks immediately. He loves this nickname they gave him, it’s so fitting.

“You only call me for my son, I see how that is,” Liam chuckles. Strangely, he smiles, but not as much as what Louis had thought.

“Oh, shut up,” Louis jokes. “I’m doing you a favour! You just wanna talk about him!”

“Course I do, have you ever seen a dopest boy than mine?” Leave for Liam to describe his own baby as _dope_. Louis adores him.

“... I hafta say, Ernie's pretty dope, too,” he has to defend his own little brother in every single occasion possible, he _has to_. Ernie’s for sure as dope as Kai.

“Alright, alright, I'll give you that,” Liam finally smiles in a genuine manner. “Just him, though,” he sighs and pauses. “He and Meli are at her parents’,” he adds after a second.

“Oh, that's new,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. He opts for pasta and goes to fill the pot with water. He should be supportive with both of them, but he’s excused to side with his best friend in moments like these: he understands that since Meli had such a difficult pregnancy she had become a lot more apprehensive around Kai, but it still doesn’t make sense to spend all her time at her parents’, or even worse, like that one time she refused to go to Wolverhampton to visit Karen and Geoff. That was a low one, and even with all the sympathy Louis can grant her he knows how much she had hurt Liam by doing so.

“Don't. Don't start.” The few words Louis said seem to have moved Liam nearer a headache.

_That bad, uh?_ “Something happened?”

“No, not yet I think?” he sounds unsure.

“... Like?” Louis presses. This conversation is confusing him. How can be Liam not be sure if he had an argument with his girlfriend or not? He puts the pot on the stove and waits for Liam to answer.

“Listen, I don't wanna talk about it.” His tone is too set for Louis to argue with him. “Tell me a bit about your week, won’t you? What about the book launch? The teen one? And the fair thing?”

Louis takes his time with that. He hasn’t talked to anyone about that yet, and knows he can’t escape Liam’s question. “Young adults, please,” is everything he ends up saying.

“Whatever, what about it?” Liam presses.

Louis opens the fridge, hoping something will distract them. The only thing he sees there is marinara sauce, though. Not exactly a good diversion.

“I... I send the copy too late to the Boekenweek.” He closes the fridge, without looking at Liam, who’s frowning in the screen. “Next year, I suppose.”

“So what now? Can you change-” Liam’s tone is already animated and Louis doesn’t want to hear whatever he himself has been thinking for days.

“I'm not in it. End of the story,” he cuts shortly. He pours the sauce in a pan and looks at how it expands above the heat. He can perceive Liam’s pity without even looking at him.

Like on a clue, Liam’s voice is now all doleful. “Lou, shit, I'm so so sorry, I-”

“I’ll try with the next one. No biggie. C’est la vie and all that, right?” he tries to sound cheerful but fails miserably. He doesn’t have anything to do next, lunch-wise, so he looks at Liam again. Of course he’s all sad and pouty now. This the polar opposite of what he wanted.

“It's not fine, you were so excited about it and-”

“Yeah, no shit, Liam,” he bites.

Liam recoils from the screen, frowning. He’s upset, already was, and Louis doesn’t know how to ask anymore. He just feels like shit, and keeps hurting everyone he loves. He’s always angry or sad or paranoid and can’t do anything right.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says immediately after. He doesn’t know how many times he has already said that during just this morning. “I'm feeling fucking down lately, nothing ever goes right and... Whatever,” he ends abruptly, not wanting to go into the depths of what he actually feels. He goes to grab a wooden spoon.

They both remain quiet for a beat. Liam sighs, and tries a:

“Louis...”

“Yeah?” Louis wants to scratch this call and start a new one where everything goes smoothly and he can have a chat without getting into an argument. Instead, he stirs the bright sauce.

Liam’s so serious. “Did you spend the week moping around?” he asks. “That's why you didn't call?” he’s too genuine to bullshit, but Louis tries, nevertheless.

“What?! No, I didn't, I just was so busy-” that’s not even a lie in itself.

“Busy with what! Okay, for the presentation and all that, but you know I talk with Lottie and Fizzy, right?”

Ah, shit. Of course he does. They live in the same city, they see each other frequently, his sister even babysit Kai, sometimes.

His best friend sees his sister more often than him. That’s chill. He’s chill.

He doesn’t have anything for defending himself now, and the only way out is to distract him. “Also,” he points out, still stirring. “I’ve met a guy.” This should feed him well.

“What!” Liam almost screams. Success, he’s distracted. “A guy, or a _guy_?”

Louis blinks at him. “There’s a difference?”

Liam snorts. “You know full well-”

Louis frowns a bit, amused. “What are we, eighteen again?”

Liam changes expression, squinting his eyes. “Are you making this shit up? To distract me?”

“Li,” Louis says, placing his hand on his heart. The wooden spoon he’s holding launch a drop of sauce on his sock. He’s chill. “I would never.”

“You're doing it right now! Oh gosh Lou, you really haven't spoken to anyone in the past days, didn't you?” Liam’s back to pouty again. Louis has no way out now.

“Li...” he sighs. What else can he say, Liam’s is right. He didn’t speak to anyone who wasn’t Harry for a week straight. Is not even the first time it happened since he moved here, and he didn’t even have Harry until a week ago. In a way, as dark as this week was, it was also far better than the others.

The silence stretches out. Louis keeps stirring his sauce.

Thankfully Liam’s the first one to surrender. “Oh c’mon, alright, tell me about the _guy_.”

“He's not a _guy_,” that’s the first thing that needs to be said. “He's just... This guy.”

“_Just guys being dudes_.”

“Yeah, that. _Just gals being pals_.”

Liam raises his eyebrows at him, spurring to continue. “And, nothing, we, uh, _met _last Friday,” better to not talk about the bike accident. “Then we went to a march together, I sent you the photos, right-”

“I knew you were with someone, I _knew_ that.”

“Aren’t you the smartest,” Louis smirks at him. “Anyway, whatever, we saw some art-light-art-installations yesterday, then went back to his-”

“And?!” Liam exclaims, far too excited.

“- and nothing, we smoked a bit and watched trash TV. Y’know, the common laddy things.” His freak out in the toilet or what happened on that couch and in his brain is his business alone.

“That doesn't seem like nothing,” Liam puffs, clearly not satisfied by Louis’ story. “Tell me about him! Does he have a name, at least?”

Louis smiles just thinking about him. “His name’s Harry.”

“You _smiled_,” Liam says, triumphally.

Louis scots his expression to neutral again. “I _did not_,” he lies easily. “And he’s...” he lingers, trying to think about how to describe him. _Weird as fuck? Far too fit? Genuine, smart, gentle, patient? Just well-around good? Way better than me in hiding his sadness? _“… he’s polite.”

Liam sighs, exasperated. “That’s it? Not even kind? Just polite? You know, I heard the pause you’ve just made. Just to let you know.”

“Okay, okay.” Louis raises his hands to surrender. “He's kind, too. Very kind. Amiable, one could say.”

“Louis,” Liam’s tone is suddenly a lot more gentles than before. He’s not bantering anymore. “You know you can move on, if you want to? You could-”

“Yes, I know,” Louis interrupts him before he can hear him say things he already knows too well. He doesn’t want Liam to go there. “Look at me!” he exclaims, moving to frame the new kitchen. “I'm moving on right now. I moved on when I moved here.”

Liam watches him with the same serious expression, not buying Louis’ act. “I didn't mean just geographically, and you know that.”

Louis feels his rage growing in his chest. “I'm over David, and you know that. You don't have to bring him up at every conversation we have,” he growls.

“I didn't even mention him! You're talking by yourself!” Liam exclaims, all wide eyes and innocent expression.

_Is he for real?_ Louis’ even more pissed. “It was what you were implying,” he grunts. He’s not going to have another argument just for the sake of it.

“Of course I was, who should I be talking about? Brian from the first year?!” Louis is going to strangle him. He’s going to come home in three weeks and _just do it_. “I just want you to be happy,” he adds, like that could solve anything. Like Louis hasn’t heard that phrase a dozen times already during this morning alone.

“I know. I'm happy,” he breathes out, without even trying to sound convinced this time. “I'll be happier when I'll be back home.” He’s just having the same conversation all over again.

“Yeah, sure, but in addition to that you can have fun while you _wait_ to be back home.”

Louis makes a face at that, because, no. “I'm too old to just have fun,” he reminds him. Also, he doesn’t want to just have fun anymore. He wants other things, like to start a family and adopt eight babies, just to say one thing.

“That would implying that you had 'just fun' while you were younger, and I was there to say it never happened,” Liam says, sagely.

Louis just rolls his eyes at him, because what even could he say back? He throws a glance at his pot and yep, the water’s boiling. He goes to choose which pasta to cook, ignoring Liam.

“Oh c’mon, that's just depressing. Go have fun, go get that dick!” Liam calls out, far too happy to say what he’s saying.

Louis fakes exasperation. “Liam, it's _get that dick and go_.”

“You can quote it, but can you do it?”

“You’re feisty this morning, aren’t you,” Louis mumbles to himself. He has put too much pasta in his pot. Whatever, he’s going to get a food coma and sleep for half of his afternoon. It’s not like he had anything better to do, either way.

“It’s just…” it’s difficult to talk, but he wants Liam to understand where he comes from when he says _‘I don’t want anything right now, and for sure not here’_. “I just really don't want to start anything while I'm still here. I still plan to return to England as soon as possible, y'know? This is a temporary situation for me. It'd make no sense, and I want a serious relationship, and not a long-distance one, or something like that. I want to have a serious relationship _and_ be at home, so…” he rushes to change the topic before Liam can say _‘so you can have just fun'_ again. “Are you gonna join Meli's parents for lunch or not?”

Liam sighs, accepting he’s not going to get anything else out of Louis. “Yeah, and I'll have to leave in a minute, and I don't- What are you smiling about? What happened?”

On Liam’s forehead notifications had started appearing at the speed of light. Louis knows just one person who can type that quickly.

“Mmmh, what?” he tries to swipe them up, to get them out of the screen so he can see Liam’s face better, but they keep coming. He smiles again: who knows what Harry is texting him, but whatever it is, he’s excited, and now Louis’ intrigued. “Nothing, ‘s nothing.” Liam scowls at him. “Tell me about Meli,” Louis presses. He’s genuinely interested in what happened between them.

“You won't listen to me anyway,” well, maybe he has a point. “You have the sound on, you know that? Who texted you?”

“Okay, okay, fair,” Louis shouldn’t lie so much to him. “Harry texted me.” He swiped down the notification, reading them for the first time. There are a lot of keysmashes. “About drinks tonight? I don't know, he seems already drunk by the way he's typing.” Another smile blooms on his face: he can’t help it, Harry’s too endearing for him.

Liam lets out a genuine gasp. “He _likes_ you, like, for real.”

“Mmmh? Nah,” he focuses back on Liam, who’s staring at him with his eyebrows up. “I don’t think he does,” _I’m nearly sure about it by now, or at least he’s interested. _But what clues does he have for thinking that? Maybe he’s just biased because as he said, Harry’s polite, and he’s too lonely to get the difference between that and flirting, nowadays. This is how pathetic you can become. “The night’s about some friend of his. And anyway, I don't like him, so we're even.” He shrugs, like to say _what can you do_.

But is that even true? He still hasn’t thought about whatever happened the day before, nor he’s sure it could lead to somewhere now, hours later, with his mind clean, and Harry far from him. His opinions always get clouded when he’s beside him. But doesn’t that already mean something? He’s living in denial.

“Whatever you say, bro,” Liam accepts what Louis is saying with the look of someone thinking ‘_I know you well enough to tell when you’re lying_’. “Got yourself a man who’s not afraid to double text, nice,” he comments when Harry’s texts keep arriving, disturbing his voice.

They keep chatting until Liam has to leave and Louis has to drain his pasta. When they hang up, Louis takes his time, staring at his kitchen’s wall, to think about his morning calls.

If anything, he got something out of these pasts few hours: he always expects the worst from everyone. He does. Even from Liam or Lottie, who love him _so_ much and have no reasons, and even more importantly, have never had any meaning to ever hurt him.

But hearing that Liam's having problems with Meli and him not telling Louis anything about it made him paranoid.

Of course Liam doesn't want to talk about it because he's upset, because Harry’s texts had interrupted him, of course Liam doesn’t have any obligations towards him, but Louis can't help but thinking it's because he doesn't trust him anymore. They're not as friends as they used to be, maybe Louis missed too many things, he’s so far away from him and his life, and Liam doesn’t want to tell him his problems anymore.

And rationally, Louis knows it's not true.

Liam has the right to say (or not say) whatever he wants, to him or to anyone else, and Louis knows he shouldn't be this worried, this obsessed. This vicious circle of thinking doesn’t, can’t lead to anything good, and it's just going to harm himself even more to think about it in this way.

But. How can he not wonder how different his life would have been if he hadn't decided, months ago, to move here.

He could've just moved back to Manchester. That simple. He could’ve found a job in another company and avoid this mess. He's thought about it dozens of times already: he would have been closer to anyone who he's far away now, while still being at a decent distance from David. But he wanted a clean break and decided to change countries altogether.

And being here didn't just give him homesickness, no, what he feels is a lot more: he doesn't trust what he feels anymore and he has no idea of what that could mean. Why does he think that everyone hates him the moment they see him, like they could see through him and everything he's done and judge him for it? He knows it’s not true, and he keeps thinking about how ‘_it makes no sense, there's no gratuitous negativity here, or from anyone around me_’ but at the same time he can't stop being obsessed with it just by trying to convince himself.

He's lost in a maze he has built for himself, and each passing day his hope to get out of it becomes thinner.

A _beep _from his phone awakens him from the brooding state he had slipped in.

Right, Harry had texted him. Multiples times, even. Also, he should eat before his lunch gets cold and unappetizing. He looks at the texts while stirring his plate to get the warmth of the food homogeneous.

The messages… are a lot, first thing. Second thing, they’re a mess.

**Fjshajaj**  
**Louis**  
**LOU-IS**  
**ZAYN'S IN FOR THE RUNWAY**  
**HIS OIECES ARE JN**  
**whatever you got it**  
**LIKE CAN YOU IMAGE**  
**HFJSKDALSKD**  
**I’m the proudest……. the proudest**  
**Not even his parents are as proud as me**

**We're gonna drink so much tonight**

**COME WITH US**  
**ZAYN JUST TOLD ME HE’S GONNA OFFER DRINKS TO EVERYONE**

Louis smiled as soon as he had opened them, but after he had read them, he had felt his chest expand with happiness. He doesn’t understand how this random guy can have this impact in his life. Granted, maybe he just needed a distraction, but Harry’s enthusiasm is always so strong and enthralling Louis always gets to have a speckle of it. Harry gives him some energy just as a reflection.

_okok im here_, he replays after reading them.  
_Congrats to Zayn !! How is he ??_

Harry sends him instantly a pic he can’t really make out: there’s someone on the phone, maybe, but the image is too blurry and dark to see something worthy.

**He's all teary-eyed on the phone with his parents**, Harry adds as a caption for it.

Louis looks at the pic again and yep, this time he can make out a man their age: he has a hand with loads of rings covering his face, and fancy, colourful clothes on.

**We're going to this club at 10**, Harry continues undisturbed, linking an address.  
**You can arrive at whatever obv**  
**Don’t know for how much we’ll stay sober tho**

_You sure Zayn is ok with me coming?? He's never even seen me_, Louis feels like he has to ask even if he feels ridiculous to do so.

**Are u joking**  
**He wants to celebrate**  
**He's too happy to care about you**  
**C’mon it will be funnyyy :)**

Louis stops with his fork at mid-air. Harry confuses the shit out of him. He’s always been so sure of his decision, always knew what to do, always had a plan ready for every occasion, to the point where David, who has always been more enterprising than him, had to push him to go outside of what he already knew. But now, a curly-haired, dimpled guy is making him unsure of the most random things.

Because he had thought that it would’ve been best to not see him for a bit, but now that he’s thinking about it again he can’t remember the reason why he had thought it.

How much was for self-preservation and how much for self-isolation?

He feels like he doesn't even have time to process whatever happened the day before that he already has to see Harry again. He’s happy about it, he really is, and the absurd thing is that despite this week being the worst of his time here in Amsterdam, Harry lighted a flicker of hope up just walking in his life. Or better, just hitting him with his bike.

But despite all of this, he double, triple checks every interaction they have, every word they exchange. Maybe he doesn’t want to get used to him just to get home again.

He looks down on his phone: Harry’s still online. He has no plans for the entire weekend. And seriously, what kind of harm could that actually do? None. They’re just going to have a few drinks with him and Zayn’s friends.

_Alriiiight, fair_, he texts back. His checks get blue instantly, and his heart softens at the thought of Harry looking at their chat, waiting for him to replay.

_See you tonight, then_  
_:)_

Harry just sends back a string of random emoji: cats, plants, people dancing, flowers, alcohol, cakes, confetti and more. Louis smiles at it and locks his phone.

Well, apparently he has big plans for the night, now.

~*~

Louis realises he has no idea of what to expect from the night just when he steps into the club.

He walked straight into it, pushing the door open without any second guessing or changing of heart, too frozen to have doubts. So now he’s here, in the semi-dark of the space, with loud music coming from everywhere around him and no idea of where to go.

He’s never seen this Zayn, knows little to nothing about him, even less about his friend or for what he’s actually celebrating tonight. The only clue he has is Harry, but that’s as good as nothing for wondering about how the night is going to turn out to be.

It’s kind of refreshing, actually. He likes to be forced to go out of his square thoughts, square days, square life.

He should text Harry, of course he should, but instead he takes his time to acclimatize to the warm room and wandering around: his eyes get used to the dim lights easily and he can see how many people there are here; this place is quite big.

The music is loud from where he stands, near the bar; but the atmosphere at the tables and the couches seem calmer, with many people chatting and drinking. No one is dancing, there’s no room to dance at all, and Louis takes a sigh of relief at that.

“Lou-eeh!” a loud, shrill voice calls from behind him, while he’s still studying the place.

Louis turns around and yep, Harry's there behind him, his hands behind his back, like he was waiting for him to show up. He's alone, though.

“'Arreh”, he says, in a similar tone, smile clear in his voice. “Where are the others?”

“Back there,” he nods; his curls bounce around his face. He looks somewhat different but Louis isn’t sure why yet. It’s too dark here. “I saw you all lost and come to rescue you,” he drags out, emphatic. Oh, he’s had already a bit to drink.

“And they say chivalry's dead,” Louis smiles. Harry sways near him, with the same grin plastered on his face. He has a loud, glittered shirt on, almost rose gold, that shimmers in the dark, with an exaggerated bow on the front. He looks incredible.

“Actually it is,” he says with almost too satisfaction. “’Stopped you just ‘cause I was going to the bar and could use a couple more hands.”

“Oh, I see how it is now,” Louis bites his lip. “You wound me,” he adds. “But yeah, let’s go, I want a beer.”

Harry turns to where the bar is, sighing like whatever Louis said pains him. “A _beer_. You’re such a _man_.”

“Playing football, drinking beer,” Louis nods. “Laddy stuff.”

Harry shakes his head, like he disapproves that whole concept of manhood, and leans over the bar to asks the barista several drinks. Louis intervenes just to ask for a dark beer, that’s ready in few seconds. In the brighter lights of the bar, Harry’s gestures are highlighted by the gleam of his rings: he has a lot of them on, and Louis thinks about how he’s never seen them on him, his hands always protected by thick gloves.

They go back to the table, Harry balancing five glasses with his clicking rings and Louis with just his and another one.

“Louis, give that to Jameela, there,” Harry tells him when they arrive at the table, placing the drinks he’s holding and distributing them to his friends. They’re not as many as Louis had thought, just about eight people sitting there, all thanking them and taking their glasses.

Louis remains frozen with the dark blue cocktail in his hand for a second, until a beautiful brown woman, dressed head to toe in fuchsia, takes the pity in him and grabs it herself, giving him a smile and a _dank je_. He smiles back at her and looks at the empty spots at the table to decide where to sit. Harry’s quicker than him and sits on one, tugging his sleeve to sit on the one between him and another man, who has been silently looking at him since they approached the table.

Louis saw him while walking there: he’s the most exuberant dressed one, he’s impossible to miss; he was laughing at something, clearly full of life, but as soon as he spotted him and Harry he seemed to have switched to serious. Who knows.

Harry introduces him quickly to the people sitting there, and Louis merely smiles at them, a hint of apology in his eyes when Harry says _“he’s shit in Dutch, forgive him”_; Harry introduces him for last to the serious man who’s he’s sitting near to.

“And this!” there’s fibrillation in his eyes and his voice. “This is Zayn. Look at him. International superstar, he is.” Harry wasn’t kidding when he said he was the proudest; the smile in his voice is prominent.

“Congratulation, that’s a big deal,” Louis says sincerely, even though he has still no idea of what Zayn had actually done.

“Thank you. I’m… glad to see you, tonight,” he replays slowly.

The first thing Louis noticed about him was how gorgeous his clothes were, even at a distance: flashy colours, asymmetric cuts and a mix of patterns that somehow _works_. Now he knows he’s _the_ Zayn, he can say that as a fashion designer, Louis was expecting him to be dressed well, but whatever he has on, he’s never seen something so creative in his life.

The second thing he notices now is how composed he is. This is his celebration night, but for now he seems more interested in studying Louis, without even trying to be subtle; he has this neutral expression, interrupted only by him sipping his amber cocktail. He’s handsome, too, but so much Louis feels more intimidated than appreciative.

“Did you design this?” Louis asks, unable to stop himself. He waves at his clothes, drawn by how refreshing and surprising a few pieces of fabric can be, if treated with enough creativity. “It’s incredible stuff, either way.”

Zayn blinks, his poker face ruined by his obvious surprise.

“He did!” Harry exclaims on his left. “You should see the pieces for the collection, they’re so beautiful.”

“I mean, I’d be honoured,” he says, turning to Harry, who had already drank a third of his cocktail. “If you want to, of course,” he adds, looking back at Zayn, smiling as friendly as possible.

“Thank you,” Zayn starts, his voice firm. “And I wouldn’t know, I-”

“_Zayn, stoppen met acteren__,_” Harry interrupts him, whining, annoyed as Louis has never heard him before.

Louis looks between them for a second and sees they’re communicating something with their eyes; he ignores it, drinking his beer.

“_Goed__,_” Zayn sighs at the end of their silent chat. “_Alleen voor jou__._” He takes his phone and starts looking through his gallery. “My pieces were accepted to be part of this runway, here in Amsterdam, for this Spring collection and-”

“This firm went to London fashion week two years ago,” Harry pipes up. His drink is already halfway down.

“Yeah, two years ago, not this one,” Zayn replays immediately, without even looking at him. Louis feels like this is not the first time they exchange those exact same lines. “Anyway, it’s still a big deal,” he concedes.

The pics shows various dresses, some so bizarre Louis has to look at them twice to understand what’s going on, but the majority are regular pieces of clothing.

Zayn keeps explaining things to him and Louis asks a lot of question, genuinely interested in his work. Harry intervenes to respond at almost every Louis’ question, saying how living with Zayn these past months have taught him a lot about the field. Some of their friends intervene in the conversation here and there to tease Zayn about something or offer their point of view on the industry, but those conversations often switch to Dutch after a couple of lines, and in those moments Louis always turns to Harry, silently grateful at how he’s always down to talk in English with him.

Harry keeps drinking steadily but he doesn’t hold his liquor as much as Louis had thought, seeing how confidently he kept on sipping his cocktail. He’s all loud noises and exaggerated faces now, and Louis likes how carefree he’s being. Louis, too, has drunk most of his beer, and the relaxing buzz of alcohol has settled in. He’s in that perfect limb of tipsiness.

With Harry drunkenness seem to come the tendency to be touchy, as now he’s half on Louis again, probably with the excuse to point better at what Zayn is showing them on his phone. Louis has already forgotten about his morning doubts and his enjoying how Harry is leaned all over him; he has even put his left arm around him. Life’s good.

“Is this mostly menswear? Or not?” Louis asks, after they’re done seeing the pics.

Zayn smirks at that. “That’s kinda the point. I’ve studied in this field for enough to be bored by how restrictive fashion still is, especially on the men’s side. These clothes are designed to fit whoever wants to fit in them. So no, it’s not menswear, it’s deliberately _whatevers_wear.”

“That’s so clever,” Louis breathes, wide eyes.

“It’s one of the things I have at heart the most, that and the sustainably of the industry, which-”

“Is he talking about fast fashion _again_,” says a loud voice from the other end of the table. Louis doesn’t remember his name, but he seems pretty convinced in not making Zayn talk about it anymore. Zayn doesn’t seem bothered, but doesn’t expand on that either, just drinks.

“I don't know anything about fashion, but these are... Incredible, really,” Louis says, sincerely. Whatever Zayn just showed him is going to be big. He has no way of knowing, but you can feel certain things, you know?

“You don't?” Zayn eyes him up and down, studying his clothes. “I wouldn't say so, mate.” He smirks.

Louis feels weirdly exposed to that. Zayn is handsome enough to don’t care about being discreet with his moves or his gazes, because what he’s doing is _bold_. “How come?” He feels like he’s more than asking, but way less than flirting; his beer his over and he’s just having fun.

“You care a lot about your style, that's obvious,” Zayn starts, still looking at his jacket.

“Well, yeah, we all wanna look nice, right? Like, you obviously spent some time on your accessories and your hair,” Louis replays, gesturing at the various necklaces and rings Zayn is wearing and his precise quiff.

“Of course, but…” he drinks the last sip of his cocktail. “Your jacket is sportswear, and not only that is super trendy right now, it’s also a vintage piece from the Olympics in the '84, and your pants fits you too well to have been bought at H&M, so yeah, I’d say it’s more than that.”

Louis blinks at him, taken aback. _How the hell_. “Woah, you got some eyes, don't you?”

Zayn smirks again at him, but before he can say anything, Harry cuts him off, saying: “_Stop dat nu, Zee, het is niet grappig._”

Louis turns to him, surprised by how harsh his voice his, and finds him staring at Zayn with a murderous look in his eyes. He doesn’t interrupt eye contact with him even when Louis turns to him, and that’s a first.

Zayn’s not concerned at all by Harry’s tone, and starts crunching the ice left in his glass. “_Waarom? Ben je jaloers?_”

Louis doesn’t understand if the tension between them is friendly or not, so, to muddy the waters he asks Harry, with a friendlier tone: “Yeah, are you _jaloers_?” the word sounds familiar to his ears, but not enough to pinpoint what it could mean.

His plan clearly doesn’t work, as Harry and Zayn freeze, looking at each other with wide eyes; Zayn bites his lips, looking away, and Harry groans without a care, looking embarrassed as hell, and throws back his head, hands on his eyes, distancing himself from Louis.

“What… what just happened?” Louis asks, unsure.

“Did you… what did you say?” Zayn tries.

“I have no idea of what you've just said, mate,” _I’m sure it’s not that deep_, he wants to add.

There’s a moment of silence, in which Harry returns to them and the three exchange a look, wary; then they all start laughing at the same time.

“Okay, okay, we need another drink.” Harry stands up, wobbly on his legs. “Do y'all want another drink?” he asks to the table, that’s ready to respond with more orders.

“_Y'all_?” Louis’ still laughing.

“Oh, shut up, you. I'm bringing you something pink with an umbrella,” he points at him, not intimidating at all.

Louis stands up, too, ready to follow him. “I'm coming with you, heathen.” The reason is more about how he’s worried Harry’s going to fall flat on his face, but he’ll keep that to himself.

The bar is filled with people and they approach it slowly, as Harry’s still unsure on his legs.

“Which of them are your friends?” Louis asks him once they’ve ordered what they wanted.

“Oh, these are all Zayn's.” Harry shrugs, smiling. “They're the _artists_ I told you about,” he adds whispering, like it’s a secret between them.

“Oh.” Louis’ interdict. “Why didn't you invite your friends, too?” _Why did you invite me, then_ goes unsaid. He realises how rude he's being the second those words leave his mouth.

“Oh, they're, y'know…” Harry's so clearly embarrassed and Louis feels like an arse. “They were already busy, yeah. Couldn't come.” He nods to himself, looking at the bartender instead of Louis. It's so obvious he's lying, so Louis can't do anything but go on with it.

“Yeah, of course, this city is crazy, always so many events, right?” He reassures him, knocking their shoulders.

“Yeah.” Harry seems glad Louis went in that direction and remains leaned on Louis’ shoulder.

They drink a shot together at the bar, laughing at how they pull the same face after. Louis rests his head on Harry’s shoulder after that, still laughing at how silly Harry’s face is, always so expressive and alive. He always smells so good, too, he can catch it even in this confusion of senses, almost like-

“You smell like coconut,” he breathes, straightening his back and looking at him with wide eyes, like he had a breakthrough. “I love it.”

“Oh,” Louis can see his blush even in the dimmed lights. His dimples smile at him. “Thank you. You smell like honey.”

Louis laughs at it like it’s a joke, but can see how the smile in Harry’s eyes suggests something different.

Zayn’s talking to the guy on his right when they come back to the table, so they remain in their corner, keeping drinking and talking slowly, more laughing than anything else.

Harry is _so loud_ when he’s drunk: he keeps calling everyone _bitches_ and proposing cheers for Zayn at any given moment, stopping random waiters to ask for more drinks for everyone. He keeps taking pictures of everything and everyone, even if he forgets the flash on and ends up on dazzling all of them; then, he gossips about Zayn’s friends under his breath with Louis, or at least he tries to before Louis shushes him: he’s being too loud and too giddy to be discreet and Louis is enjoying the night too much to start something.

Zayn’s friends all seem lovely people, they really do, but Louis doesn’t get to have any conversation with them, squished between Zayn, who’s loudly celebrating his night with all their eyes on him, and Harry, who’s the only one who keeps replay in English at everything he’s told, even when it doesn’t concern Louis. Louis tries to tell him how he appreciates it and it comes out in gibberish and too much giggling, but it’s okay: he wouldn’t have words for it either way.

They’re definitively drunk by now and Louis has lost the number of drinks they had; he couldn’t care less, though. In these timeless moments the only things that exist are the buzz in his chest, the cotton in his brain and Harry smashed on him. He’s golden.

“So!” Harry exclaims, after ending a pointless story he was narrating to a Louis who kept interrupting him. “Do you wanna know how me and Zee met?” his words are a bit slurred but still understandable. He straightens his back and lays his elbows on the table, staring at him.

Louis giggles. “Of course, dear. Will this story have a point, though? Or will be like all your others?” he tries to steal Harry’s glass but he swats his hands away. Rude.

“Stop being so… _disrespectful_, you.” The word comes out all wrong from Harry’s lips. Louis remains mesmerized for a second, then barks out a laugh. “So, me and Zee,” he says loud enough for Zayn to turn to them. “We met in an _iconic_ way, didn’t we?”

Zayn frowns at him. “_Wat doe je?_” he sounds disapproving.

“Telling our story, Zee.” At that, Zayn frowns even more and turns completely to them, leaving the group he was chatting with. “The full, still censored version, of course,” Harry redeems.

“_Dat is geen goed idee,_” Zayn responds immediately. “_Je bent te drunken, je moet niet._”

Louis’ sitting between them, looking at their exchange like a ping pong game, his confusion growing.

Harry narrows his eyes. “You’re so boring.” He turns to Louis then, changing to an overjoyed face. “So! I was saying! I was sitting in this club, alright, one quieter than this one, and-”

“Looking miserable,” Zayn adds. It seems that since he couldn’t stop Harry he now wants to contribute to the narration.

“I did not. I _resent_ that.” Harry sways his index to underline the concept. “I looked like a _snack_.”

Louis and Zayn exchange a look, pull the same face and snort. Louis is liking Zayn.

“And Zayn here, he was eyeing me from afar, you know how he is,” Harry continues like nothing’s happened, pointing at him.

“Hey, now, I did not,” he’s getting as pumped as Harry over this. “You were the one all _winky_.”

“I didn’t wink at you.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you don’t know how,” Zayn snorts. “Still, you were the one eyeing _me_.”

“If that’s what he does to your self-esteem, Zee,” Harry sighs.

Louis is feeling so jealous it’s unreal. Scratch every nice thing he has thought about Zayn, he’s going to end him now. How _dare_ him to say such things when he’s right in front of him, Harry half in his lap. Unable to do anything about it, he tightens his arm around Harry, the one that hasn’t left that position since hours ago. He sees Zayn following the motion with his eyes, and the only thing he can think is _good_. Harry readjust himself, curled on Louis, satisfaction written all over his face, and continues: “Anyway, we were so sure it was going to go somewhere. We’ve been looking at each other for a while, right?”

“True.” There’s a silent smirk in Zayn’s eyes.

Louis is going to end him. _Painfully_.

“We were sooo flirty,” Harry giggles. “And then-”

“You ruined our moment, baby.”

Louis sees red. This is too much, _what the fuck_ is he doing. He turns to Harry, who has his face inches from his and touches his hair. “What did you do, darling?” He turns to Zayn again, but he’s surprised to see him pleased, his face now half hidden between his glass. That’s so so weird, he didn’t expect that, maybe… Louis realises that maybe he just fell into a trap.

Harry’s oblivious at whatever is going on between him and Zayn, and Louis feels his face getting warmer under his hand. He’s blushing. “And then… Zayn, I can’t,” he whines.

Zayn raises his eyebrows at him. “What now. You started it.”

“Yeah, but…” Harry pouts, and that seems to be enough for Zayn to continue.

“Then he started crying,” he says without a care, flat tone, looking at Louis. “Like, full blown sobbing. In the middle of the pub.”

Well, whatever Louis was expecting, that wasn’t it. “... What? Why?” he looks at Harry again, but he’s hiding his face on Louis’ shoulder.

“_Careless Whisper_ started playing. That's everything that happened,” Zayn says with the same tone. Well, that doesn’t explain anything, does it.

Louis’ as confused as before. “What club even plays _Careless Whisper_,” he says, for a lack of a better comment.

“I know, right?!” Harry exclaims, apparently ready to get back in the conversation. “What kind of a dickhead you have to be!”

_That really wasn’t my point_, Louis wants to add, but Zayn’s already continuing.

“Anyway, the mood is ruined, and before I can even understand what is happening, Harry ran outside still sobbing and everything. Can you imagine the scene? So much _pathos_. So much _verve_.” He’s looking at Harry, amused, who’s as blushy as before.

“But you still followed me outside!” Harry points at him like he’s accusing him.

“’Course I did, that was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. Like, can you imagine?” He asks, turning to Louis, looking like he’s holding back his laughter. “Everyone was chilling, then out of nowhere this guy starts _bawling_. All by himself,” he giggles at that and despite everything, Louis does, too. “‘Course I went outside, you were a mess and I was still trying to save my night, but I knew we couldn’t go anywhere, ‘cause you started sobbing _on me_ the second I asked you if you were alright.”

“Why did you even started crying like that, love?” Louis plays with Harry’s hair, his jealousy still there.

Outside their private bubble, Zayn frowns. _“Ben je al bij de 'liefde' niveau?”_ he asks, but nobody pays attention to him.

Harry shrugs, not looking at him. “Don’t know? The alcohol, maybe.” And it’s obvious that whatever it was, it was a lot more than just the alcohol, but Louis’ more interest in how Harry was in that moment, and how he is now.

“But you still offered me to live with you on spot, didn't you? So I didn’t freak you out _that_ bad,” Harry continues, imputation tone still on, as if he’s sure that whatever he has done, Zayn response was a lot more embarrassing.

“Woah, lads.” Louis looks between them. They’re serious, though. “That was quick,” he adds when they don’t deny it. _You sure nothing happened_, he wonders again. _Is this the censored version because of this? ‘Cause you won’t tell me what happened afterwards? _Maybe deep down Louis doesn’t even want to know.

“You have been sleeping in a hostel for weeks at that point,” Zayn mumbles like it’s a secret. Maybe it was.

“What? You were living in a hostel?” Louis urges Harry, shaking him with his free hand.

“Oh yeah, I’m young like that.” Harry tries to drink the last bit of his cocktail, but there’s only ice left. “Ah, the shared toilets. So many nice memories there,” he says with an exaggerated dreamy look. “But Zee here came to rescue me.”

“A pity it never went anywhere,” Zayn mumbles under his breath.

Louis feels another urge of jealousy takes him over, annoyed by how many times Zayn had to say that, and moves to accommodate Harry even better in the shape of his side. Harry makes no resistance at all, as always, and just plops on him like a ragged doll, all dimples and soft laughers.

It takes Louis a moment, but he realises that Zayn had no reason at all to say that, and to underline it so many times during their conversation. With the bit of brain that he has left, the one that hasn’t drowned in alcohol yet, he realises that if anything, Zayn had said that to reassure him that nothing ever happened between them. It’s so weird that he even cared enough to do something like that. He doesn’t know Louis at all, he can’t already have an idea of how he is, can he?

He ignores Harry for a second to steal a look at him: he’s looking straight at Louis, serious as he was when they got introduced. Louis doesn’t know how to feel about him now, or about the trap he has set for him, in which he fell without thinking twice. He’s too smart, too observing. He feels like he’s already two steps ahead of him.

He decides to not worry too much about it, because he currently has a smiley, drunk Harry in his lap, and that’s all he cares for.

“So, yeah.” Harry has his eyes closed and a smile in his voice. “We’ve been living together since. And we’re best friends nowww,” he singsongs, giddy.

“Easy with words,” Zayn says, but he's smiling more than him, looking at how he’s cuddling Louis with soft eyes.

“We are, trust me,” Harry whispers to Louis’ ear.

“I believe you, darling,” Louis says in the same tone, looking at Zayn, whose smile gets even bigger at that.

Time blurs out after that. They keep celebrating Zayn’s night, making too much noise, cheering at everything and drinking like it’s their only goal in life. After nearly falling on his face to go to the toilets Louis decides to end his stream of whiskey-based cocktails, enjoying even more how the moods of Zayn’s friends unfold. It’s been hours of drinking and shouting, and they all seem ready to end the night here or switch location.

Harry has been the star of the night for most of the time, but now he’s crushed on Louis, half asleep and half mumbling things Louis can’t make out.

Louis hears them proposing stuff he can’t grasp: Harry’s too sleepy to function as his translator and Zayn’s too involved in the matter to pay attention to him. He does catch ‘_gaan dansen_’ and ‘_we gaan naar een andere club_’ though, so he’s pretty sure of where this is going, and he’s as sure that he wants to go home like, right now.

Despite how lovely they all seem, his only link with them is currently asleep on his shoulder, so it’s safe to say he’d rather end this night here. Also, dancing is not his favourite, so clubs in his experience are pick up places for hooks up, and he’s not in the mood.

They stand up, ready to leave, clearly their plans made, so Louis tries to shake Harry in the gentlest way he can, but his drunk hands are too rough for that at the moment.

“Do you wanna go dance with them?” he slurs out. Harry frowns at him and closes his eyes again.

“I’ve got it.” Zayn appears out of nowhere near them, after been outside with the others. They’ve already left, it seems. Louis must be a lot more drunk than he had thought.

He follows them outside, helping Zayn carrying a completely slack Harry, who got a glimpse of his lucidity back after Zayn forced him to drink some water, and is now humming some tune. It’s drizzling, like always, but the outside of the club is sheltered.

“You didn’t go with them?” Louis just realised Zayn’s friends went to some other club and had left the celebrated guy behind. Weird weird weird. Dutch people are so so so weird. He starts composing a song in his head with those words. It sounds eerily familiar to Scissor Sisters' _I Don't feel like dancin'_, but he's not at the highs of his writing capabilities now. 

“I know my limits,” it’s all he says back to him. He sounds soberer than him and Harry.

Louis nods. He knows his limits, too. No dancing, that’s a limit, right? Helping your drunk mate when he’s giggling by himself and trying to mess up Zayn’s hairstyle is a limit, too. Zayn’s hair is lilac. He couldn’t see that before, inside, but it seems relevant to him right now.

“_We gaan naar huis_,” Zayn says to Harry, batting away his hands from his hair. “You know how to get back to your home, right?”

“My home is in England,” escapes his lips before he can think better of it. It’s true, though: he has a flat here, not a home. He never wants to go back there, he could even maybe prefer the dancing club to that ugly, bare place. He hates it. He has seen just those bare walls for four days straight, now.

Zayn rolls his eyes at that. He’s right but also very wrong. “To whatever you sleep here in ‘Dam, ‘ts not that deep.” His accent is a lot stronger now, with the tiredness and the drunkenness and Louis likes it. It sounds slightly different than Harry’s, too, and he wonders why, if they’re from different regions of this tiny tiny country.

“That's not my home, that's just a place,” he continues, whining. The image of getting back there is clear in his mind now, and he can’t bear it. He’d rather sleep here on the pavement than going there. He’d rather take an overpriced plane and go home for thirty hours than anything he’s done in these last months. “I hate it. I never want to go back to that, it's too silent, it’s too cold. I'm the only one there.” This may not be the right moment to vent, but he’s just started. He could go on for hours.

Zayn sounds truly exasperated when he replays to him: “Whatever, I'm gonna call you a cab.” He has every right to sounds like that. He has known Louis for a handful of hours, his tone is short and he has the face of someone who has to go to sleep soon or he’ll commit a murder.

“Sleep at ours.” Louis raises his head from the pavement and yep, that’s Harry who just spoke: his eyes are half closed, heavy from the alcohol, but he sounds sincere, helpful.

Something in his softness makes him sober up much more than the cold or Zayn’s sharp voice: Harry’s looking at him with his clear eyes, the same one from their night on that couch. Was it only yesterday? He can’t have another moment like that. Harry’s too soft, too honest with him, and Louis has no idea of what to do with all this trust he always gives him.

“That's… that’s too much, maybe. I'll just get going.” Louis hears Zayn mumbling something but he’s too lost in Harry right now to care. Harry distance himself from the wall he was leaning on, and precariously moves some steps towards Louis.

“But. It's raining. And your flat's far away,” Harry tries again, voice low.

“_Far away_ now, this city is smaller than my neighborhood in Doncaster,” Louis says, more to himself than to Harry. He puts his hands on his temples, leaned against the wall near Harry. This wall is the only thing that prevents them to fall over and broke all their bones. That’s funny. He wonders if a duvet made of bricks could be warm. That sounds like something Harry would question.

Harry lowers his voice even more: “You just said you don't like there.” Louis wants to apologise. He didn’t want Harry to hear that. He didn’t want Harry to know how much he despite every single little thing that exists in the same city Harry loves so much. Every time he insults Amsterdam, he feels like he’s insulting Harry, too. “You don't have to,” Harry continues. “But, we have a couch? And it’s comfy, you know that. ‘Ts not a big deal.”

It’s not a big deal at all, that’s the point. He thinks about how many times he slept in the same bed as Oli or Calvin or even Luke, or how he and Liam lived in each other’s pocket for years. Bros being bros. He should stop overthinking this.

“… Okay. That’s okay, if that's alright with Zayn,” he concedes.

They both turn to Zayn, who raises his head from his phone.

“I really don't care, bro. Like, I genuinely don't.” He looks glad the whole thing is sorted, if anything.

“You have a thing for rescuing sad boys, though,” Louis snorts, and starts walking slowly with them towards their flat.

“I know. My mum always says my heart's too soft,” he grumbles back, hands in his pockets and head hung low.

“She's right, you're the softest,” Harry giggles at him, trying to mess his hair again, but he’s too slow and clumsy for that. Louis puts his arm around his shoulder to sustain him, and the three of them walk the short distance between their flat together, slowly and rickety.

~*~

Louis wakes up to the sounds of thuds and grumbles. He opens one eye, slowly, his headache still very present in his brain: it’s dark. It takes him a couple of moments to remember where he is: still on Harry’s couch, in the middle of the night. He feels nauseous, like the couch, the whole Earth is swaying under him. If he stays completely still it’s not that bad, but as soon as he moves one muscle the dizziness is back.

He’s ready to close his eyes again, sure he had imagined the noise, when it happens again: this time it’s louder and accompanied by a faint light. He turns his head as slowly as he can and sees Harry getting out of the toilet. Again, he’s ready to dismiss the whole thing (so what, Harry had a wee, ground-breaking), but then Harry hits the wall in front of him, whining and overall making too much noise for Louis’ taste.

In the faint light that comes from outside, a weird mix of the moon and the orange one from a streetlamp, Harry looks dazed. He’s sweaty, his eyes are wide open but unfocused, and he’s standing still over there, breathing slowly.

“You okay?” Louis grumbles, still under his blanket.

Harry seems to come back to reality at that, but his eyes remain unfocused even now that he’s looking at Louis.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers back. His voice is hoarse. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.” He’s frozen, leaned on the wall in front of Louis, unmoving.

“It’s okay.” Louis is more awake now and comes out from his blanket, popping on his elbow and looking better at Harry: his eyes have gotten used to the dark, and he can see how Harry’s face still hasn’t got any better. He’s pale. “You sure you’re fine?” he asks again.

He doesn’t want to make it weird, but Harry’s still there, dazed and unmoved, and that’s definitively weirder. Probably he has just thrown up and now he needs a moment to himself before he’s ready to go back sleep again, but there’s something in his pale face and vacant eyes that’s worrying Louis. He doesn’t know him at all, he remembers, he has no idea if he has something specific, _could be_, of what to do if he gets seriously sick.

“I had a nightmare,” Harry finally whispers back, so faintly Louis thought he had imagined it.

At that Louis sits up completely, slowly, careful to not upset his head.

“Come here, love,” is all he says.

He can see it now, the fear behind Harry’s eyes. He knows that kind of fear so well, he has seen it so many times in his sisters’ eyes, in his little cousins’, too. Harry needs comfort more than anything, now.

Harry walks up to the couch unsure of his feet, slowly and wobbly, and gets under the blanket near Louis, fitting in his side. Louis hugs him, tightening his arms around him, but Harry’s rigid, not responding: he’s still staring ahead.

“Do you wanna tea, darling?” Louis suggests. That always calms him.

“No, I just wanna…” Harry shakes his head and buries it in Louis’ chest, forceful, like he’s trying to hide from whatever he has dreamt of.

They remain like that until Louis tries again: “Do you wanna tell me what was it about? Maybe you’ll feel better?” words are difficult to get out, but he does it taking his time, running his hand through Harry’s hair. He knows he likes that.

“Talk to me,” Harry murmurs in the end. “Talk to me until I fall asleep again,” he pleads.

Louis closes his eyes, trying to keep his headache at bay, and starts saying whatever comes to his mind first. About that time Fizzy woke him up because she had a nightmare, and he made her black tea instead of chamomile by accident, which resulted in throwing a party in the kitchen at 3am on a Tuesday; about those times he worked in a summer camp and had countless midnight chats with homesick children.

Louis’ half-asleep himself, his words smash together and he leaves half of his phrases without an end, but Harry seems more relaxed now, so he stops talking and lets himself fall asleep completely.

He’s too confused and sleepy to listen to Harry when he starts speaking to him, and he gets what he’s saying just the day after, after a lot of teas and concentration to remember precisely about this moment. Even now that he’s slipping into unconsciousness he knows Harry’s saying something important, but his sleepiness prevails on his attention, sending him into the dream world.

“I was at a party,” Harry has started. “Everyone was wearing masks but me. Kees was there, somewhere, but I couldn’t find him. He was the one who invited me there, but he didn’t say anything to me about the masks. I didn’t like them. I couldn’t recognise anybody. Everyone looked the same, with empty eyes and open mouths, but nobody was making any sounds. There was a sad song playing in the background, but I don’t remember what it was. I’ll never listen to sad songs the same. Or to love ones, or to _Careless Whisper_. It’s all gone.

Then I saw him, and I knew it was him ‘cause he was kissing someone. He was kissing someone who wasn’t me. He was wearing a mask, too, but I knew it was him. I could feel it in my stomach.

When I saw him kissing a stranger, I felt… like an earthquake. The ground left my feet. I wanted to throw up on him. I went to him but I keep moving so slowly. I had to see him flirting with him, taking his hand. It was like the floor was slippery, and I couldn’t do anything to stop him.

And when I could, I started screaming at him, saying “_how could you do this to me” _and other stuff, but the only thing he said back was _“baby, you’re making a scene, don’t embarrass me”. _People had turned to look at us and he was more worried about that than how he was cheating on me. But, I mean. That’s not a surprise, is it?

Then I took the mask off his face, but there was nothing underneath. Just darkness. He didn’t have a face. I started screaming but I couldn’t wake up, I couldn’t move away from him. I can never wake up when I want to. It was so, so terrifying. Then he got even nearer me and said: _“this is your fault. Now get out of my face.”_

That’s when I woke up. Sometimes, I still can wake up just when he wants me to.

I keep dreaming about him, and he always does this. He didn’t even leave me the chance to escape from him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zayn, stoppen met acteren: Zayn, drop your act  
Goed, alleen voor jou: okay, only for you  
Stop dat nu, Zee, het is niet grappig: Stop that now, Zee, it's not funny  
Waarom? Ben je jaloers?: Why? Are you jealous?  
Wat doe je?: What are you doing?  
Dat is geen goed idee, Je bent te drunken, je moet niet: That's not a good idea, you are drunk, you shouldn’t  
Ben je al bij de 'liefde' niveau?: Are you already at the 'love' level?  
‘gaan dansen’ and ‘we gaan naar een andere club’: ‘let’s go dancing’ and ‘we are going to another club’  
We gaan naar huis: we are going home  
******************  
ZAYN IS FINALLY HERE I’M SO HAPPY FOR THAT, and, if for any chances you're interested in fast fashion as well, I'd recommend the documentary "the true cost", or Kristen Leo entire YouTube channel :)
> 
> And, also: Harry's storyline, his nightmares, his past, are all very important and near my heart. I hope I can do justice with it like I intended to. His look in the bar is directly taken from his St Paul (Minnesota) concert (or, [like this](https://data.whicdn.com/images/315012861/original.jpg)) (or, one of the best videos we have of Medicine)  
*******************  
This chapter was, uh, particularly heavy to write, especially the beginning and the end. Let me know if you liked it :)) as I said, this whole fic is making me feel super vulnerable. Even a single comment really means the world to me
> 
> As always, [ my tumblr ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/), [ the fic post ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/post/625001364010024960/amsterdam-with-you), [ ‘awy’ tag on my tumblr](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/tagged/awy), and [ the playlist for the fic ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL5momjAjTuX6twPBNWmdXHrC46ATa8szU)
> 
> Next update should be tomorrow, but Louis decided to drop DLIBYH on that day, so I know we’re all gonna be too interested in that, soooo I’ll post it on the 4th or 5th!


	5. 2nd - 7th of December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me an honest to god, full-blown, genuine ethical crisis. More of that in the endnotes.  
Warnings: talks about grief, a lot of those, and feelings, of course.

_Lost in Japan_ is still baby blue with big, bulky letters on its cover, but is now also _real_.

Tuesday the 4th has come, Louis’ shift has ended, and it’s now dark despite being the early afternoon. He’s at the _American Book Center_ admiring a real copy of his work. He has been in this bookstore for almost twenty minutes now, browsing the shelves with his copy in hand, not ready to leave one of his favourite places in Amsterdam.

The book is displayed by the glass of the library and seeing that Louis’ heart burnt with pride. He had personally called so many libraries to make sure this was going to happen, despite that not being his job. Seeing his (_theirs_, he should say) work so advertised is giving him the confidence in his skills and his work that had disappeared in the past weeks.

The book may not go to the _Boekenweek, _but if it’s exposed so well then maybe it won’t be such a disaster as he had feared.

He can’t stop smiling to himself, admiring the copies and chilling in the bookstore, despite the-

“Hey, stop that,” Louis repeats for what it feels the hundredth time. “They’re gonna kick us out.”

“’ve never been kicked out of a bookstore before,” Harry replays, smoothly. “Wonder how it’ll feel like.” He doesn’t stop replacing every book in sight with _Lost In Japan,_ though. He has put at least one copy in every section and on every stand they’ve encountered so far, taking pictures at how messy and out of place it all looks.

“I’ve worked in a bookstore when I was younger-”

Harry snorts. “’Course you did.”

“-And that’s so annoying. Like, someone has to put ‘em back,” Louis continues, without any bite in his voice: rather, he’s half smiling behind him, not wanting to be seen while he’s being so fond of the entire situation.

“It’s your special day, they’ll understand.” Harry places one of the last copies he had grabbed on a plastic stand and turns to give Louis a toothy grin. He looks so lovely Louis has no idea of what to do with himself. He just shakes his head and changes aisle.

He feels a confusing mixture of so many feelings: of course he’s happy and proud for the book, but he’s also stressed because this is the heaviest month for his job, and just yesterday and today have been a harsh confirmation of how much he’s going to work until Christmas.

It’s like a cycle has been concluded and the end result is now in his hands; but more confusing and absurd than that, there’s the fact that he has met Harry with this book, the same one he was so worried he couldn’t have presented to its author because it was covered in mud. But now the book is here, nicely exposed, printed in time, and somehow Harry is still here, too. Not only that: he’s right next to him, still rearranging the shelves to make sure _Lost in Japan_ is the most visible one. It’s been what, ten days since Harry hit him? Since they screamed at each other, sitting on that pavement in the wind? And now they’re here together.

It feels like so much more time has passed.

“It’s not like I wrote it or anything,” Louis says again, just to talk to Harry some more, because it’s completely obvious that he doesn’t mind the attention Harry is giving to him, and Harry is having fun making a mess.

“I know, but there’s your name on page four,” Harry chirps, following him down the fantasy section, walking slowly, their steps coordinated. “So, cheer up.” He puts a copy near _Game of Thrones_, snorting to himself, and Louis can’t do anything if not laughing with him and pick up the pace to get away from the misdeed.

The contrast between the two books is so _loud_, everything about this is so obvious, and it’s so weird and precious how Harry is always so cheerful and open, always so available to spend his time with Louis, like now he’s spending his Tuesday afternoon to make sure Louis’ work gets as many looks as possible, and Louis appreciate that above anything else.

He wonders, though, if Harry could even realise how much he has been a flicker of hope for him in this last ten days, after so many months of darkness, loneliness and infinite boredom. He tries to imagine how it would have been, to do all of this completely alone, and he can physically feel the swell in his heart, the pain in his neck at the thought of him alone in a bookstore, with no one to share his happiness and pride with.

It’s also the first time he actually realises how much of Harry’s availability is for sure due to an enormous amount of sadness, to his own feeling of being lost, alone. Probably Harry doesn’t want to spend his time alone as much as Louis doesn’t want to. Probably Louis should stop making theories about other people’s feelings.

Soon it will be Christmas: there are decoration, lights, advertisements everywhere and Louis couldn’t escape this joyful explosion of red and green glitter even if he tried. He’s dying to go home, to see his family, all his friends, especially Liam because he’s still so worried about him. He always sounds too tired and beaten down for Louis’ taste, and they can never manage to have a fulfilling conversation the few times they call each other, always too busy with their lives.

The homesickness grew even more, and is now is immense, suffocating, and on top of all of that, he can’t stop thinking about how this Friday he’s going to be here and not with his family and that is just… weird. It’s not something Louis could ever have imagined himself doing: he’s one of the most family-oriented people he’s ever met, and being confined down here because of work sounds like something David could have done. He’s not trying to be salty in his head about his ex-boyfriend, that’s simply truth: they had a different perspective of what was truly important, after all.

But in all this spiritual projection towards his home, his only and precious home, he’s still stopped by how much he’s worried about Harry. The thought of what he said to him weights him down, and Louis finds it impossible to daydream of how it will be once he’ll be home again, like he did since he came here, because now he wants to help him, too. His thoughts are filled with worry towards the person he loves back in England, but Harry is here beside him, while they waste away their afternoon in the best way possible, and Louis has this pull towards him: he can’t do much for everyone else while he’s here, but maybe he can do something for Harry.

He remembers just vaguely what Harry said on that Saturday night: too much whiskey, too late at night; but he knows for sure that it was something serious, something so ugly he has no idea how to bring it up in the light of a new day.

And he remembers how weird it was to wake up the morning after right next to him, both still scrunched on that sofa, too small to contain one full adult, let alone two; but still, how they fit in that space too little for their limbs, how they conformed to each other’s shapes and angles like their bodies already knew how to place themselves. How he got up to get away from that warmth and that comfort, his mind too cloudy to even bother being confused, and had made breakfast for the three of them because he was the less drunk one. To be fair, Zayn was still asleep when he put the boiler on and made some toast, he was still asleep when he and Harry had the breakfast together, their knees touching in that little corner of the world, in that clipping in time, in a silence that somehow felt so much more intimate than whatever words they could have traded; he was still asleep even when Louis put on his shoes and said a soft ‘_bye, see ya soon_’ to a still sleepy Harry and walked outside in the cold morning air.

And Harry is still with him now, like he’s his world’s biggest fan, humming Christmas jingles softly.

Louis had run to the bookstore to see his book as soon as he had finished his shift and had sent a text with the picture of _Lost In Japan_ to whoever was worth seeing it: his thumb had hesitated for less than a second over Harry’s name and then had added him in the list.

_Harry_, he had thought,_ for sure cares more about this than anyone else, and for sure will understand this pride I’m feeling. _But Harry did more than that: he had replayed, not long after, that he was near the ABC and already had the intention of grabbing his copy that day. Louis felt maybe too much flattered by this guy, always so honest and with his heart on his sleeves.

He looks at him now, on his right like always, while he’s commenting something he didn’t quite catch about some movie he’s holding. He wonders again, for the umpteenth time, how much of what he had dreamt and told him was true. How much of that actually happened, if it went down like that, if it was a variation on the theme, if something similar happened. How, when, _why_.

But the point is: even if it wasn't, his pain must be still enormous, strangling, for him to dream such horrible things, for his subconscious to feed him such terrifying images. And Louis keeps wondering how he can ask him if everything is alright, when the answer is clearly “_no_”, when they’re in a bookstore with blinding, cold lights and probably an employee is cursing them just a few meters away. He wonders if it even makes sense to ask him that, when the point for him is not “_is everything alright” _anymore_,_ but it’s already “_what can I do to help you? I know we have met just a few days ago, but I already feel so invested in you, I’d do anything to make you feel better_.”

But he can’t say that in such a fluorescent, public place, can he? Not the time, not the place.

So they keep strolling around, commenting books or films or video games, surrounded by organised people who are already doing their Christmas shopping.

“This is one of my happiest moments from this year. The proudest, for sure,” Louis says in a breath, feeling too exposed, too vulnerable to share something so intimate; but at the same time comfortable in Harry’s presence, in his wiliness to listen to him, always.

“Well,” Harry puts back the movie he was holding, and smiles in a way that matches his curls, his soft sweater, the rosiness on his cheeks. “I’m… I’m glad to share this moment with you. And for, you know,” he gestures at Louis. “For your happy glow.”

Louis knows his cheeks are as rosy as Harry’s and he doesn’t know anymore how much of it is because of the hot air in the bookstore and how much is because he has turned back into a teenager, but above that, he knows he doesn’t care.

“I’m not pregnant. But thanks.”

Harry honks out a laugh at that, a loud one, and smacks a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide, like he can’t believe the noise he just made. Louis feels the crinkles by his eyes before he can hear his own laughter.

They walk towards the registers in unison, without saying anything, like they both had felt they have spent enough time in this particular bookstore, and they both want to do something else.

Louis buys a copy even though he knows he won’t do anything with it, because he can have how many he wants from his publishing house for free, but it’s just for the satisfaction of being able to do so. Probably he will gift it to Oli’s girlfriend of the month.

He notices that Harry isn’t buying the book, he had distributed all the copies he had grabbed along the way, like Hansel and Gretel and their breadcrumbs. Of course is a rude thing to point out, so of course Louis doesn’t say anything, but he does throw a glance at him to make sure he’s not imagining stuff.

But Harry notices that, because once they go outside in the biting wind he says:

“Maybe I've lied.”

“Mh?” Louis questions, for a lack of better wording, while he puts on his gloves back on.

“I've already bought my copy,” Harry says, shrugging, not really looking at him. Coloured lights dance on his face.

Louis gasps at that, actually gasps like he’s a cartoon character. “Wha- _when_.” It’s what he settles down for.

Harry shrugs again, like what he’s saying has no weight at all. Like he’s trying to convince Louis of that. “This morning, before going to work, and, I, I've read the first ten pages or less, but I think I'll like it. I’m liking it,” he rushes out all in one breath.

And. What can Louis even say?

Of course Louis is glad Harry’s liking it, that’s the bare minimum, but the thought of him being so invested in all of this enough to not only to remember the book was out today, but to actually buy it, and did it without Louis pressing him or such... For him to buy it before he went to work, and somehow found the time to read the first ten pages, to make sure Louis knows he’s liking it… it’s so, so much.

“Well.” He watches his breath being condensed in a white cloud. “I'm glad.”

Out of all of what he’s feeling, that’s all he’s able to say. They've said this word, _glad_, a million times already in this conversation alone, but it's like words aren't enough. Harry can be excused, but Louis should know his words, this is his language, but Harry makes him feel too many things. So he forgets words and keeps on saying _glad_, because the human vocabulary doesn’t know anything about late-night conversation, about nightmares and homesickness, about transforming a book covering in mud into standing outside a bookstore saying _glad_ back and forth.

And they have nothing more to do but it's so obvious none of them wants to leave, so they keep wandering around in this city full of blipping lights and of the smell of sugary treats, with their hands in their pockets and their heads hanging low, talking about nothing, like time or obligations don’t exist, like the only thing that is real is them chatting the day away, or walking side by side in a silence that’s worth so much more than whatever words they could find in the human vocabulary.

It’s only when Louis gets back in his flat that he realises that if Harry didn’t need a copy, he had just said that to have an excuse to hang out with Louis. His only thought about it is how he wouldn’t have minded if Harry just flat out said it: he doesn’t need an excuse to spend time with Harry, and hopes Harry feels the same about him.

~*~

Louis had… kind of lied to himself lately, trying to convince himself that everything was going great, that he felt just fine.

It’s impressive how making the same mistake over and over again can teach you absolutely nothing when one is as stubborn as him: his mum used to tell him that he could’ve been capable of arguing with God himself, and Louis liked to retort by saying that there were so many things to criticize about his work, and he would have willingly done so once his time had come.

He had tried to distract himself, he really did, with the same techniques as always, despite knowing they never work. He had worked too much lately, always grabbing extra hours and even covering his colleagues’ shifts a couple of times; texting Harry in every other moment of the day, because Harry had grown the habit of writing him about every detail of his days, and Louis was always grateful for the input to think about something else.

But he also knows there are feelings and _feelings_ to distract yourself from. And Louis knows ignoring grief is never a smart move, that can never lead to a happier situation.

So, this Thursday afternoon, after having spent the previous Wednesday forcing fake laughter out of himself at work, writing to his sisters and texting Harry back too quickly, Louis decides this is not the -moment to run. This is the moment to face the storm he’s feeling inside his chest and letting it take over him for as long as it’s necessary.

He takes a deep breath in his empty flat, imaging to inhale all the air inside these four walls, and thinks about every magical moment he has spent with the most important woman in his life, his role model, and tries to think about what could be a nice way to honour her memory in this second, terrible anniversary.

Last year there was a celebration on the 6th, with all her seven children, her family and some of her friends; everyone had said something about her and to Louis and his siblings, and they’ve all shared that constant love she had left behind herself. Then, on the 7th, Louis and his immediate family had had dinner together, where they all smiled through their tears and gave and received a countless number of hugs.

Louis is already ready to be moved, but when he isn’t? Louis is always ready to shred some cathartic tears. It’s just that it feels so weird to do it while alone on his couch, so far away from all the people he should be hugging right now. He thinks about how this could look like desperation, like just misery and anguish, when it’s really, really not.

This tragic event had shaped his life in a new way, of course it did, but that doesn’t mean that everything that came from it was negative. His family grew even closer, something that he didn’t think was possible, he had the proof of how resilient his siblings are, and he and David had never been closer like in the year that followed. For months, the only thing that existed around him was love. Pure, simple, bright love. He had become even more open about sharing his love and appreciation to the people around him, and had found inside himself the strength to transform something so horrible in a new way to look at the world.

A thing he knows, that he knew even before but had just a vague idea about it, that is now seared in his heart forever, is how the meaning, the purpose of his life is truly _to give_.

Everyone, in the days and months that had followed and during that celebration last year, remembered Jay like an incredibly kind woman, so lovable, always optimistic, always ready to share everything she had, even when it was so, so little.

This, with so many other things, is what is mum has passed on his: give, always give.

Louis knows what to do: he has to share a piece of his happiness, of the light he feels inside his chest every time he thinks about her. That’s the best way he knows to honour him mum’s memory. He coughs a couple of times, to free his throat from the lump that makes him unable to talk, wipes out those infesting tears that have appeared in the corner of his eyes, and calls Harry.

He realises he has nothing to say only when Harry picks up the phone.

“Hiya, hi Lou.” Harry’s voice is distorted by the line, and Louis thinks about how this is the first time for them to speak on the phone.

“Hey Harry.” His voice is still a bit scratchy. He has nothing to say after that.

They remain for a few moments in this soft silence, interrupted only by Harry’s constant humming, when Louis says the first thing that comes into his mind:

“I’m making a stew tomorrow.”

He had never made one, as it always looked like too much work for just one person to pull off, but it was something his mum loved making on special occasions, or on Sundays, if she had a little more time than usual. Louis loved to help, except he always ended up making a mess in every corner of their small kitchen and somehow always managed to cover himself in flour. She never got too much angry at him though, or at least that’s what Louis remembers; he has probably idealised those memories. Stews were a tradition that went on for all Jay’s life, and it became more and more chaotic as more children appeared in that tiny kitchen.

It was one of those small things you never think too much about, until you don’t have them anymore. His aunt uses too much celery in hers and Mark always overcooks the beef.

It was a random thing to say but it popped up in his brain instantly, and now that he thinks about it a stew seems a nice thing to make and to share. He has so many wonderful memories linked to it.

“Congrats, that's a big deal,” Harry laughs softly from the other side of the phone.

“It kinda is, it's the first time I'm making it,” Louis starts. He tries to mentally check what he will need, but he’s afraid he’ll have to go grocery shopping after he hangs up: he probably lacks in almost everything needed. “But, you know, a stew takes ages to prepare, and it makes loads of food, so... Do you and Zayn want to tag along?” he continues.

“…Are you inviting us for dinner?” Harry asks after a couple of moments of silence. He sounds surprised.

“I mean... Yeah.” That’s the plan. It doesn’t seem that weird, to him. “I don’t wanna eat stew for the next month, and...” _Well, let’s be honest here_ “It's a nice thing to share, isn't it? Stews take hours to prepare and aren’t something to make just for yourself. It’s like, a family thing.”

As good tasting as a dish could possibly ever be, Louis doesn’t care enough about food to spend an entire afternoon just for the sake of it. _It's the time you spent on your rose that makes your rose so important _and all of that.

“Can I put you on speaker?” Harry asks out of nowhere, after another pause. “So Zayn can hear.”

“Oh, yeah sure, go on.”

He hears Harry tinkers with his phone, then the audio quality gets slightly worse. “_Zee, kom hier, Louis is aan de telefoon,” _he shouts.

Zayn’s steps follow no longer after, with him mumbling something.

“Louis invites us over for dinner, tomorrow,” Harry explains to a Zayn that is now probably next to him.

“_Ons beiden?_” Whatever Zayn just said, he sounds surprised; maybe even confused.

“Yeah, he did,” Harry replays undaunted, still speaking in English. Despite not understanding half of the conversation, Louis finds amusing how they have conversation half in Dutch and half in English, Harry always set to make Louis feel part of the chat and Zayn probably wanting to keep some stuff to himself.

“Louis said something about how food gives joy and is for families and is something that needs to be shared,” Harry repeats what Louis just said with just a hint of irony.

“I mean, it kinda is,” Louis pipes up. He’s been on the phone for less than five minutes, but he can already feel how the superficial layer of his sadness, the useless one, is gone. He’s always entertained by Harry and Zayn’s banter, even if, again, he can understand less than half of it, but with their energy he feels so much more connected to this world and to this dimension than he was ten minutes ago.

“So he said he’ll make us a stew.”

“A stew? With what?” Zayn suddenly sounds interested in the matter. Louis mentally notes that maybe food could be a way to his heart.

“Are you allergic to something?” That’s his biggest concern. He always forgets that there are people with allergies on the same planet as him. “Anyway it's super simple, I'm not that advanced. It's like beef, onions, peas and carrots, that stuff, you know?” _It’s British cuisine_, he wants to add. _How complicated can it be?_

“Oh my god, I _love_ peas,” Harry interrupts his list of ingredients.

“I'll put a ton of those, then.” For whatever reason, this makes him smile. A lot.

“I can eat everything you said, so, good stuff,” Zayn reminds him that he’s still there next to Harry, and he’s not having a private conversation with him.

“Oh, nice,” Louis comments; even Zayn sounds content of this matter. “I’ll send you my address and everything, but yeah, on Friday, okay?” He’s ready to hang up.

“No, hold up, wait, _this_ Friday?” Zayn asks in a rush. “As in, tomorrow?”

Louis stops. “Yeah.”

Zayn makes a sound that Louis could describe only as a _whine_. “I can’t tomorrow. I have…” he starts muttering things in Dutch.

“Oooh, right,” Harry intervenes. “You have to know, right, Zayn’s too popular for us. He has had fancy dinners with other designers for days now. He’s always out and about.”

“I’m so tired of it,” Zayn continues, his voice dimmed like he walked away from Harry. It doesn’t sound that bad, in Louis’ opinion, but he doesn’t say anything.

“He always leaves me alone here,” Harry continues. “Fame has changed him.”

“I hate those situations most of the times,” Zayn has gotten closer to the phone again. “Like, everyone's always doing coke in the toilets, like _always_. And they're all so posh and fake, except for maybe three people I know? I'm not cut for that life.”

“Aw, poor lad,” Louis says sympathetically. Now that Zayn is depicting the situation, he understands a bit more his distaste for those exclusive dinners.

“I just want to draw stuff and then sew it but no, I have to go on dinners and talk shits about everyone who bailed, like, why? _I_ want to bail,” Zayn is muttering more and more, like he’s talking to himself, repeating things he probably had said to Harry countless of times.

“Don't be sad, I… Mh, Harry will bring you some stew if you want,” Louis tries to cheer him up. That was a weak attempt, but he feels weak, too.

“_Oooh, je bent zo verdrietig dat je alleen moet gaan, of niet soms?_” Zayn says softly to Harry, a hint of laughter in his voice.

“_Hou je kop,_” Harry bites back. It’s probably the first time he has spoken Dutch in front of Louis. “I'll bring him so much food Lou, don't worry about that,” he switches in both languages and tone: he sounds all sugary now.

“_Dit is zo'n zegen voor je,_” Zayn continues, laughing even more than before. “_Kijk, je hebt nu een date._”

“_Ik zei hou je kop, Zayn,_” Harry sounds even more distressed than before. Louis doesn’t know what he would give to know what Zayn said. “Okay Lou, I’ll see you tomorrow then, alright?” The change in his voice is so sudden even Louis gets a laugh out of it.

“Sure thing. See ya tomorrow.” Louis remains sit there for a long time after they’ve hung up, before he finds the energy to stand up, check the fridge and actually go outside to buy all the missing ingredients.

~*~

It’s storming outside. It’s storming inside Louis, too, so he finds it appropriate for the day.

Louis has been stirring his stew for half an hour before Harry finally rings his intercom: Jamie Olivier didn’t say anything about stirring often, but there’s something about standing in front of a boiling pot that’s quite therapeutic, in Louis’ opinion. He does feel like a witch. The smell arising from the pot is so familiar that if he closes his eyes, he can dream of being ten years younger, with no agitation for the future and no pain in his neck or in his heart.

Harry’s dripping cold water on his flat’s landing while wearing the biggest smile he’s seen on him and holding a bottle of something, probably wine, and somehow all of this is refined through the same grey filter in Louis’ eyes. He has hung up on his sisters not long ago, and the lump in his throat is still there, prominent, suffocating.

“Hi,” Louis says, because that’s what you’d expect from the guy who invited you to his flat. “Come inside, you must be freezing.”

“I bought you red wine,” Harry’s cheer is present like always. “’Cause, red meat, red wine, right?” he steps inside and takes off his shoes before Louis can say anything about that. “I don’t know anything about wine, but this has a moon on the label, so I figured it’s a nice one.” He trusts it into Louis’ arms and takes off his coat, too. “Where I put this?”

Louis’ so grateful to have someone like Harry, who warms up so easily to new people: he ignores any signs of potential awkwardness that could exist and goes directly to the next steps, which is ‘being comfortable around each other’. He feels particularly slow, today, so Harry’s energy balances his own well.

“Give it to me.” Louis puts Harry’s coat on a hanger and then examines the bottle: he doesn’t know anything about wine neither, but Harry’s right, the label his lovely. “Tell me if you need a change of clothes.”

“I’m good, thanks.” Behind him, Harry is snooping around the flat, observing the small living room connected to the kitchen; he goes to the stove and looks into the boiling pot, too, lifting the lid and everything, uncaring of how rude it could seem. Louis doesn’t find it rude at all, though: it just makes him smile. If Harry wants to be his weird self, he’s free to do so.

“Do you want a beer? I reckon we should drink your wine with dinner,” Louis asks while already opening two beers he had in the fridge: did you know you had to _deglaze_ the bottom of the pot with beer? He didn’t know that. He also learnt a new word, _deglaze_.

“Oh, sure.” Harry turns to him, and Louis takes a good look at him for the first time since he stepped into the flat: he’s dressed up, maybe he’s even elegant, Louis’ not sure. What is sure is that he looks overdressed to be eating stew at home with a mate. He has a sheer shirt with embodied roses on, skinny black jeans and the heeled boots he left by the door are for sure as uncomfortable as neat; his curls are so perfectly styled they could look sculped, and he has… perfume on? There’s definitively something that’s not the usual coconut about him. He’s even more beautiful than usual, and Louis already didn’t think _that _could have been possible.

“Have you recently moved in?” Harry asks, after taking a swing of his beer.

“No?” _weird question, that was_. “I've lived here since September, why?”

Harry furrows his eyebrow. “Oh, nothing, I mean…” he gives the flat another quick look. “I don’t know, thought of you as the type to put family photos and stuff everywhere.”

Louis’ follows Harry’s eyes and looks his bare walls with him: he hasn’t added anything to it in the months he has lived here. There’s still the basic furniture that came with the flat itself, and no sign of life of any sort. He has never seen the point of it: it’s always been in his mind of much he wants to get out of here, he never wanted to put his family photos somewhere he despites so much.

“I usually am, but,” Louis shrugs. _This is not my home_, it’s the only thing that could follow. _There’s no reason for me to become affectionate of this place, I’ll be back home soon either way_. But he feels like he can’t say that to Harry. “Don’t know, just hadn’t had much time to print photos and stuff, I guess.”

He goes to sit on his couch, and gestures Harry to follow him there.

Harry’s not a psychic, but it probably wasn’t hard to fill the gaps in Louis’ silence either way. The atmosphere in the room seems already dimmed, so Louis changes the topic to the first thing that comes into his mind.

“By the way, the stew’s on the stove, and I tried to find Yorkshire puddings but couldn't find any? Then I thought about it and yeah, that makes sense, but I don't know how to make them from scratch, so we have none. Saw a YouTube video on how to make them, but that was too much work and too much hot oil for me to handle, so I didn’t even try.” It’s a bit all over the place for a comment about puddings, but Harry seems interested in the topic.

“What are they?”

“The puddings?” this conversation is surreal. “Like, I don't know, cups made of pastry, almost? Fried pastry, and you eat them with the stew.” He tries to mimic one with his cupped hand, then realises that probably Harry has seen cups before his life and puts his hand down.

Harry narrows his eyes, like he could fish some memories out of his brain if he concentrates hard enough. “Never heard of them.”

“They're the best thing ever in the world. The _best_.” 

“Fried pastry is the best food in the world? Truly British, you are,” Harry laughs.

“Piss off, I'm cooking for you,” Louis reminds him, but he’s smiling as well.

Harry looks at him behind his beer, his eyes fired with his usual sharp glint and his smirk still in place. His burgundy nail polish matches the roses on his shirt. There’s something about him that seems different today, but before Louis can pinpoint it, Harry starts talking again, about some weird thing that happened to him today: he always ends up in the weirdest situations, working with almost only seniors or injured athletes, which make even an odder couple that one could expect.

Louis lets his words washing over him, laughing and asking questions at the right moments, commenting with him his past week or whatever news he had from home or work. The beers are over soon, and Louis grabs a second round, checking on the stew in the meantime: still uncooked. They’re going to eat at midnight at this pace, he figures, but it’s not going to be a problem from either of them, considering how chill they are right now.

Well, maybe it’s just Louis who’s chill, because after some more banter, when Harry finishes his second beer, he asks him:

“Is everything okay?”

It takes him by surprise, because all in all, yes, everything is okay. It’s still raining outside but he’s curled up on a sofa with a friend, laughing about nothing. He’d say everything’s more than okay. “Yeah, of course, why?” It’s all he can replay.

Harry narrows his eyes at him, like he’s trying to read behind his words. Louis refuses to believe he’s already tipsy. “You look sad.”

Louis waits a second, expecting a punchline, but Harry remains completely serious, still staring at him with his big, frog-like eyes. He huffs, feeling uncomfortable under that amount of honesty. Harry (and Dutch people in general) could use less honesty, sometimes.

“Harry... C’mon,” he sighs and shifts back into his portion of the sofa, not looking at him anymore: his second beer is already over. Maybe he could check on the stew again, just to have something to do.

“Was that weird to say?” Harry’s apologetic; maybe deep down he knows those aren’t the type of stuff you say to people. “I'm sorry, it's just… you're even quieter than usual. Just wanted to check on you.”

Great, now Louis feels bad: Harry’s so sincere, he’s always an open book. Of course he just wanted the best for Louis.

He takes a moment to think about how absurd it is to be described as _quiet_. Him. The guy who always had a prank in mind, who used to make a mess anywhere, on any occasion, the second he got bored, and Louis gets bored _really quickly_; who was a _terror_ to have in class. He has become quiet, now, after months of self-isolation. He wonders if his mum is even going to believe that.

“I invited you for a stew and maybe a shitty movie, not to cry on ourselves,” he smiles to Harry again, genuine this time: he wanted to make something nice for him and Harry, not shower him with his feelings.

“Okay, okay, but,” Harry sits up straight, like whatever he’s about to say is too important to announce while slacking on a sofa. “Look, if you’re sad and you tell me why, your sadness will do this.” He scrapes the label off the beer, places the bottle on the floor and then tears the piece of wet paper apart. “And then, you’ll have this,” he trusts a piece of it into Louis’ hands. “And I’ll have this,” he holds his one up. “And you’ll be less sad, ‘cause see, I’m carrying a piece, too,” he ends, waving his piece.

Louis stares at him while the damp, sticky paper wets his hand.

“Did you… did you take that from a Nicholas Sparks’ movie?” Who the fuck had he invited inside his flat?

“I love his movies, so, thank you,” his smile it’s just a bit too big to not be ironic. “I cry every time I watch them, it’s therapeutic.”

“Also, you’re making a mess on my couch,” Louis underlines when Harry starts to tear his piece of paper into even tinier pieces. “Hey, stop making confetti out of my sadness.”

“Look, magic.” Harry collects the pieces back and puts them inside the glass on the floor. “That’s not a tragedy, but… Louis.” He takes a deep breath and locks his eyes in Louis’. He’s serious again. “For real, we're friends, right? I know we have known each other for not long, but… I feel like we’re close, aren’t we? I feel like I could say anything to you. Do you feel _this_?” he asks, gesturing the space between them.

Louis does, he feels whatever there’s between them so much he’s terrified by it. “Everything's so easy with you. And the rest just… it just fades away,” escape from his chest before he can zip his lips shut. But if it’s true, why shouldn’t he say it? Harry makes him want to live his truth without any filter, with the same frankness that is so important for Dutch people.

Harry gulps, all wide eyes and candidness. “Yeah, that. That’s… yeah.” the words linger between them. There’s nothing to add.

“Okay. I'll tell you.” Louis criss-crosses his legs and turns completely to Harry. He takes a deep breath and lets it out: “My mom passed away this day, two years ago. So, today… today’s a bit tougher than usual.”

“_Oh fuck_,” Harry almost shouts. “_Louis_,” he adds in a whisper. He has a hand over his mouth and his eyes are wide open with shock. “I'm… I’m so so, sorry. I shouldn’t have insisted so much.” He looks extremely apologetic.

Louis just shrugs at him, because what even he’s supposed to say?

“You know,” he starts. He wants to vent for a second about this, because this situation had made his heart ache from guilt for weeks. “The worst part of all of this is that I promised to my family, back in September, that I would have been there with them today. Fly for the weekend or whatever.” He sighs again. He’s not blaming himself again, he’s been over this, but it still sucks. He still can’t believe himself. “It was easy, too, it's a Friday, but... With the publication and all the work for the Christmas sales it's impossible. So I can't be with them. And,” he sighs again, rubbing his eyes. “It sucks, it really, really does, because my sisters and my brother need hugs and love and I know they'll get plenty but... I hate that I can't be with them. Today’s tough for all of us, and we should be together and, I don’t know, celebrate life. Share the love. Remembering the good times together. My mum, she was all about that, all the time.”

Louis knows he shouldn’t go on a rant about how much he hates ‘Dam in front of Harry, but right now he's too bitter to care, too heartbroken to be rational about it. “And I hate that I'm confined down here, when _I shouldn’t be here_. I should have never come here. This place keeps feeling like a prison for me, it’s suffocating me and, I... I just want to go back home. That's all I want. I wanna go home.” He covers his face with his hands, lighter now that he has sputtered all that venom he felt inside him.

Outside his closed eyes, Harry doesn’t make a sound: he just waits for Louis to come back to him. It takes Louis a couple of deep breaths, but when he opens his eyes again he finds Harry on the other side of his couch, the same couch where he has been sitting alone for months. He wears such an empathic face, all Louis can do is sighing for what it feels the hundredth time. But this time, along with the air in his lungs, the knot that has sit in his chest for days gets out.

Harry’s watery eyes remains on him, like they’re scared to blink and expose the tears hiding in them. It touches Louis’ heart, how considerate and sweet he always is.

Louis has always been the one to go the extra mile to make people happy, always been the optimistic one, the caregiver, but... He guesses people can change: he’s never been the quiet one, either. He still feels, _knows_, that that’s the most important thing to him, but it’s like he ran out of his battery.

He doesn't know how to admit that maybe he needs to be taken care of, too.

He clears his throat. “I’ve got taken away, I'm-”

“Don't you dare to say sorry Louis, I swear _to God_.” Harry's tone is forceful like Louis has never heard it before.

It shouldn’t, but somehow that makes him snort, even if he's close to tears.

“I just didn't wanna give you a stomach-ache before we could even have dinner, you know,” he tries again.

“Hey, you... Stop.” Harry is frowning even more than before, and he looks offended, almost. “I told you, we're friends. I want to know what's up with you, how you feel and all of that. I care about you.” How can he say such intimate things out loud, with a straight face and a serious expression is beyond Louis. He blames it on the linguistic differences.

But since he’s so serious and sincere, Louis decides that it’s only fair for him to be equally exposed, and to go back to be sincere, too. “I know, trust me. I know. And,” god, this is difficult. It’s like swallowing sand. “I care about you, too.”

Harry smiles sadly. “Thank you. For… telling me, and for letting me be here with you today.”

Louis nods at him, contemplating how fragile and intimate this moment is. He has so many more things to say though, because he doesn’t want to leave the topic on that bitter note.

“But I don't want this to be a sad moment, you know?” Louis gets up, collecting the beer bottles scattered around. “Because even though it has been so, so hard, on all of us, it also… changed us. Completely. Gave us an opportunity to transform a tragedy into something… better, almost?” he throws the glasses away and walks to the stove. Harry follows him there, silent. “Like, I understood how useless is to be stuck in your misery. And how precious life actual is, and how important is to live it day by day.” He picks up his wooden spoon again and goes back to stirring. “And I feel her legacy on me, but it’s not something heavy, it’s just… a constant reminder. And it’s up to me to live with it as something sweet and full of love, a reminder of how lucky I was to have her as my mum or keeping wallowing in my sufferance. And if I can to the first one, it’s still because of her, and how she taught me to always make the best out even of tragedies like this.”

“They wouldn't have wanted that, from you,” Harry adds in a whisper. “They would want you to keep living your life to the fullest. They’d want you to be happy, above anything else.” Harry’s next to him, his head leaned on a cupboard, his eyes lost in the boiling pot.

There’s something so melancholic and transparent about him, about this moment. Rain’s still going strong outside, but inside the windows are mist with the stew’s steam, every light is soft and rounded on them; they’re in their own, private bubble.

“Yeah.” He recognise that look into Harry’s eyes: it’s the same one he has in his. “I'm sorry, for all the people you've lost.”

It’s Harry’s time to clear his throat. He turns away from Louis’ eyes, hands on his face, while Louis pretends to not notice. “Me too. For yours,” he says, still facing away.

Louis takes a random fork beside him and tries the stew again: but this time the meat is tender, all the flavours have combined and the sauce is the perfect consistency, so thick and rich. He nearly moans with it.

“Stew's ready,” he announces while still munching.

Harry turns to him instantly. “Is it good?” He steals the fork from Louis’ hand and takes his own sample. “Oh my god, it's _actually_ good.” He has the nerve to sound surprised. There’s sauce dribbling on his chin.

Louis smacks his shoulder playfully, smiling despite everything. “Couldn't believe in me any less, could you.” He turns off the stove and carefully picks the pot up. “Let's get your wine and let’s tell some jokes, alright? I want this to be a happy night.”

“Celebrating life,” Harry adds, carrying the wine to the table.

“That's it. That's totally it.”

~*~

The food is good, just _so good_.

Not as good as his mum’s, that’s obvious, but considering this is his first attempt, he’ll give it himself. Harry loves it, too, and during the course of the night they both eat and drink a tad too much.

The mood in the flat changes and they’re laughing about memories not long after. Of course the wine and the hearty food are helping them, filling them with bliss and peace, but it’s their mutual company that manages to transform this night, where they celebrate the life they have, instead of crying on what is lost.

Louis tells Harry why the stew in particular was so important to him, and tells about all those significant memories he has around it, the Sunday mornings, the lovable mess he always used to make, that precise atmosphere of calm and joy you can only really perceive when you think back about your memories as a child.

Harry, too, has so many memories to share: the most similar one is how he used to make biscuit with his grandma, all the time, and how for him, too, those cinnamon-Christmassy-biscuits will always have a special place in his heart; how he has a Proust moment nearly every time he smells cinnamon, thanks to her. He also tells Louis about his late stepdad, Robin, who raised him and made his mum the happiest she’s ever been and made him believe that soulmates could be something legit; about how he loved him as much as his dad.

Despite the central topic of their stories the atmosphere is not dark at all: granted, it’s not as breezy as it could have been any other day, but they got each other in telling the good bits, the lovely images they keep near their heart.

They get each other. It’s so natural, how they fall into the other’s steps without realising, how they can ride the same wave, how they understand each other without too much fuss. They just do.

After so many stories the food is long gone, and with it almost all the wine, too. They remain there, unbothered, still chatting and drinking, relaxed, listening to the rain outside.

It’s after some Louis’ comment on how his siblings will always be in the first place in his heart, his first preoccupation, especially because he was afraid their mum was the strongest thing to keep them together, and he would never want them to feel like he had abandoned them, too, that Harry asks:

“Then why... Why leave them?” his frown is slack from the wine, his cheeks rosy from the heat, the alcohol and the food. His curls aren’t as perfect as before, but Louis finds them even lovelier, so messy on his forehead.

Louis winces at Harry’s question, because there’s only one answer to that, and he doesn’t like to relive it.

“Like, okay, I understand the promotion, and working abroad can do wonders on your resume, but...” Harry continues. “I still don't understand, not after what you just said.”

Harry’s completely right. Louis himself has doubts about this exact thing, if it was the right choice to make, at least twice a week. Probably more often than that. He drinks the wine left in his glass and decides to go with the flow.

“Have you… have you ever been so heartbroken, so mad with someone you'll do anything just to never see them again? Even something as stupid as to abandon all your family, when they’re the most important people in your life?” he places the glass back on the table and doing so he sees Harry’s expression changes from curious to upset. Louis watches him as he swallows and clenches his jaw, locking his eyes onto the table.

It was a rhetoric question, but Harry still answer: “Yeah, I do. I did.”

_I do. I did._

_Is this about his nightmare?_ Louis thinks again about it, about the confused explanation he gave him, about all the holes in the story he doesn’t remember. Did Harry run away, too, from the town he never talks about? He wants to know, he _needs_ to know what happened to him, but right now it’s his turn to share.

“I had a boyfriend. For four years.” There’s no wine left in the bottle. There’s no wine left in his glass, either. “His name was David.” For some reason that seems relevant in Louis’ eyes. _David and Louis. _He spent years daydreaming on how their names sounded perfect together, how it was a sign that they were going to last. Ah, as if.

Harry grimaces at that but doesn’t look surprised. He starts twiddling with his fork with what he left on his plate. “What did he do?” it comes out of his mouth half chewed, as if it pains him to ask.

Such an appropriate question, with a way too long explanation to follow. Louis sighs and starts:

“To be honest, nothing. But we had different… perspectives of what our relationship could turn into. And like... I couldn't be with someone who was certain of not having kids.” Harry drops his fork and jerks his head up. Always subtle, that one. “And… well, we were so sure we were gonna last, so when we broke up, it was... Hard. On both of us. So I just left, because I couldn't live in London alone anymore.” _Not after I moved there just to be with him_, he thinks to himself.

“…You wanted to have kids with him?” Harry croaks out after a moment. He hasn’t picked up the fork again and his hand it’s still in mid-air, his eyes are still wide open.

“What I want is some scotch, I think.” He’s going to need it if he’s going to tell the full story. He gets up too quickly and feels the wine rushing to his brain: wine is the type of alcohol you’re sure it has no effect on you until you move your head one inch to the left and the whole world starts spinning. He grabs his scotch and goes back to the table, where an even more dazed Harry is waiting for him. “I want to have kids, period. So, yeah, I would have wanted kids with him.” He pours a glass for both.

“That's why you looked into the adoption papers,” Harry mumbles, more to himself than to him, and takes his glass near him, but doesn’t drink.

Louis had forgotten about that bit of their conversation, when both of them were high off their asses; he now remembers, too, how Harry said he never looked into it, and for the second time he feels bizarrely sad and disappointed about that. _Not the point, _he reminds himself.

“Shit, that’s... that’s fucking horrible. I'm so sorry about that, I don’t even know what to say, that must have been a nightmare.” Harry looks into the amber liquid. “But… did he always know he didn’t want them and you did? Like, when you first got together? Or did he change his mind at some point?”

_Here we go_. He gulps down another mouthful of scotch. “Oh no, he has been always very vocal about not wanting kids. Since we first got together.”

“Wait, _what_.” Harry sits up straight in his chair, getting nearer to Louis above the table. He’s holding his glass ahead of him, his top lip curled up in total confusion. “... Then why did you even get together? Or, why didn’t you break up immediately?”

Harry’s so right. Louis puts his glass to his forehead, hoping the cold will give him some comfort, but the scotch’s room temperature and now he has a glass on his forehead and everything’s just like before. How many times he and Liam had discussed this? Countless. He knows all the pros and cons of every argument, but it’s not like they’re relevant anymore.

“Because you don't break up over kids with someone you think it's _the one_ at 22,” he starts. “You think life is so long, that your love will be enough, or that it will be enough for him to change his mind. But hey, maybe he had the same hope for me,” he sighs and puts his glass back on the table. Harry, in front of him, has calmed down his crazy expression of confusion and incredulity, and is now listening attentively. “But he has an older sister who already has a son, I have my siblings and my little cousins, and he was always so good with them. So, you know, I had my reasons to believe that maybe something was going to change. And, also. I had hope. I had so much hope.” He takes a small sip of the scotch, taking his time to find the words to explain all this. He knows how naïve he can look form outside. “And we didn't really talk about it, because we were both scared it was gonna be the final time, the one where we said the ultimatum, the ‘I do _or_ I don't want them’ and ‘I can't image myself having _or_ not having them’. We lived in a pretty bubble and both ignored the problem.”

Harry is nodding along the story, genuine participation on his face.

“So then… what happened?” he asks, cautious. “Like, one day you finally had the talk, I guess?”

Louis gives him a bitter smile at the memory. One of his greatest blessing prompted one of his greatest curses. Life’s always so unpredictable. “Yeah, we had to, because my best friend had a son. That changed… everything for me. Everything,” he repeats.

“Oh _shit_,” he almost shouts. Yep, by his volume and facial expression Louis would say he’s tipsy. “Liam, right?”

“Yep, Liam.” Harry’s so sweet to remember things like this: granted, Louis talks almost only about him, but still. “Thing is,” he sighs again. He’s going to talk for a while if he wants to explain this. “When it's people a lot older than you, or distant from you, like David's sister for me, you don't register it in the same way. But… this was Liam, my very best friend, _the same age as me_, who I lived with all throughout all uni.” He stresses each argument. “And he and his girlfriend didn't plan it but were still the happiest people on earth. And that's another thing, too, because they had biology on their side, and I know me and David were still young, but it takes years to adopt, and... It made me feel like I had to hurry. Or, at least, I had to be completely certain that he would want them at some point in the future.

After my mum's passing I started to go back home in Doncaster a lot more often than usual, to see my siblings, so after Kai was born I started to visit Liam and Meli too, and spending almost all weekends up in the north. And I've never seen Liam happier than in those mornings we spent together, never seen him more in love than that, and I saw in them exactly what I wanted the most in life. So, I… I felt like I couldn't ignore the topic anymore, and David knew it, too. I mean, of course there were other things, but the point is that we were seeing our future in two completely different ways. So yeah, one Sunday afternoon, after months that it went on like that, I came back from Manchester, we sat down and talked for hours. And... That was it.”

That was it.

With a lot of tears, hugs, and an imminent move from both of them, their four-years-long relationship has ended. Louis had been left with all their shared friends who tried to comfort both without breaking the fundament structure of their friend group, all their favourite spots in London poisoned and every corner of that damned city that called for David, somehow.

London is so big that he had tried to convince himself that ‘_if I move in another neighbourhood, it’ll be like living in another city_’, but of course that didn’t work: around his offices there were still their cafés, their restaurants, and in a way or another he had the daily reminder of him everywhere he turned: even the underground stations where sometimes they’d bumped in each other casually seemed to scream his name.

He had moved there with him from Manchester, after meeting him in Uni, and now he couldn’t move back there, and he couldn’t live alone in London either.

He was stuck in a trap that hadn’t any escapes, until it was announced that there were new workplaces for _publishers_ in the Amsterdam’s new seat, and he jumped on that without thinking about it twice: ‘_it’s one hour away by plane, and that’s my dream job_’ he had thought; ‘_Amsterdam is so fun, is the best city I’ve ever been to_’, look at him a couple of months later: ironic, wasn’t it? Maybe it was a sign he should’ve stayed there and learn how to cope with his heartbreak and his frustration, instead of just running away.

But what is done is done, and he can’t afford regret no more.

He focuses back on the guy sit two feet in front of him, who is currently half teary eyed, biting his lip with his glass of scotch untouched. He’s frowning so much Louis is afraid those will leave permanent marks on his pale skin.

“Shit. Wow.” It’s all he says, after a long pause.

Louis appreciates so much how he’s not trying to give him a speech about failed relationships or some other crap.

“Yeah, I,” he clears his throat. “Couldn't really stomach being alone in London after that, and I felt like I had to make a big change, to distract myself and maybe learn something new, so... Here I am.” He throws his hands in the air, but the final effect isn’t as festive as he would have liked.

Harry frowns at that. “Do you hate him?”

“_What_?” Louis lowers his hands. What did he say to give that impression? “No, of course not. I absolutely don't,” he says firmly.

There’s no reason for him to hate him, there’s no reason for having any bad blood between them, Louis convinced of that: however, Harry’s taken aback from that statement. He blinks at him, like he’s afraid he hasn’t heard well, and when Louis doesn’t add anything, he vocalises his doubts:

“But... You spent years with him, _years_,” he stresses. “While he knew, he totally knew that, that he would have never given you the thing you needed the most, the only thing you needed,” he’s talking slowly, like he wants to recollect the info to be sure he has heard well. “Like, how can you not resent him? Not even a bit? You moved to a new country because of him,” he adds, like Louis may have forgotten.

That’s only half of the truth, and Louis knows exactly what is afflicting Harry.

“Because it was my fault, too.” It’s the illusion that Louis is somehow a victim with no agency in this, when he can’t be, because both of them had lost, in the end. “We were too comfortable with each other to shake ourselves like that. We both knew, somewhere in the back of our minds, that we would have to talk about this sooner or later, and... we choose later. Because we knew it would have been final, like indeed it was.” He passes a finger over the glass’ rim: it doesn’t produce any sounds. “Of course I was pissed, and mad, and heartbroken. But I still don't regret those four years. I could never.”

“_Verdomme_,” Harry breathes out. He drinks his scotch, puts his head into his hands, sighs, then runs his fingers through his hair: the perfect curls of some hours ago are destroyed, but he looks incredible now, with his hair wild. “I want to have your wisdom, seriously.” He sounds enraged, almost. “Or your sobriety, maybe? Your calm? Just to accept what is already done. Leave the past in the past and all of that,” he says while tearing his napkin apart.

This is Louis’ chance. This is it.

“He actually did something, didn't he?” It’s just a shoot in the dark, and maybe he’s going too far because this isn’t his business at all, but didn’t Harry said that he would say anything to him? He wants to know what it is that tortures him at night. Also, Harry laid the opportunity to ask so nicely.

“Uh?” he stops his destruction to look at Louis.

All of this would maybe accomplish something if Louis actually remembered the name of the guy. “Kay? Casey, maybe?” he tries. He just remembers that it started with a _K_.

Harry drops the napkin and tilts his head, squinting his eyes at him. “Kees?” he whispers.

Louis recognise that sound. _Kees was there but I couldn’t find him_. “Yeah. Did he?” it’s a rhetorical question, of course it is, because from how Harry pales and recoils at it, Louis already knows the answer.

Harry crouches back on his chair, not looking at him, his hands on his chest as to protect himself… from what? Louis’ words? There’s no more confusion on his face, just distress.

“I’ve never told you about him, how-”

“The nightmare, last Saturday.” Louis interrupts him before he can formulate some kind of hypothesis. He hopes it’s just this that he’s so upset about.

“Oh.” Harry seems to come back to himself at that and sits back normally on his chair. His gaze is lost on the dirty plates and the stained glasses; there’s still a frown between his brows. “Yeah, that. I… I was hoping you were asleep. I thought you were asleep,” he says, half accusing, like Louis shouldn’t have listened to him. Like it’s his fault for knowing what Harry said to him.

He still hasn’t lifted his eyes back on Louis.

“I don’t remember much,” Louis tries to amend. “I just heard enough to understand that… Maybe something ugly happened?” he tries to be smooth, but his words fall flat in the silent room.

Harry is closing into himself, and it’s as if Louis is putting him in the spot with his attempts to get an answer out of him.

“... Yeah,” Harry mumbles, more to his own lap than to Louis. He’s shutting off, and as much as Louis wants to know what happened to past Harry, he cares about the present one more.

“Hey.” Harry remains still. “Hey, don’t worry,” Louis tries again. “It’ not like you have to tell me all about that stuff or anything.” He leans forward to him and probably enters his peripheral vision, because when he’s basically laid upon his plate, Harry raises his eyes and fixes them on him.

“You just told me about your past four years of life. And more,” he half mumbles, half chews at him.

“Yeah, and so what? This isn't twenty questions.” Harry snorts at that, and Louis considers that a victory. “It's not like you owe me something now.” He smiles at him again and waits another couple of seconds. When it’s clear Harry won’t talk anymore, he stands up, picking up his plate and cutlery.

“Wait, I- umh,” Harry starts, as soon as Louis takes a step to the kitchen. “But I want to.”

Louis stops and sits down again. Harry’s eyes are pointily fixes down, bottom lip catch between his fingers. Louis would tell him _again _that he doesn’t owe him anything, but Harry is an adult, and if he decided he wanted to share something with him, all he can do is listen. It takes him another couple of breaths to get something out, and when he does, his voice is quiet, almost a whisper.

“My… umh, _Kees_," even saying his name seems hard for Harry to say. "He, umh, he… cheated on me. That’s… that’s just it. Nothing more. Nothing else,” he adds, in a whisper.

By the way Harry’s breath catches, the way he’s torturing his lip, the way he looks so much younger and defenceless now, Louis wouldn’t say _‘nothing more’_, he wouldn’t say there is _‘nothing else’_. By the way his own heart starts racing and his hands shaking with rage and shock, he wouldn’t say _‘nothing’ _is what he’ll do to this faceless man.

“Harry, I- I’m sorry, that’s… awful, he-” what there is even to say. “That's- he’s a piece of shit.”

Louis can’t get his words out for how sad and tired he feels. He’s not surprised, the bits he remembers of Harry’s story were way too telling to imagine something different, but still feels shaken for this confirmation. Who does something like that, who could do something like that to someone as precious and wonderful as Harry? And he can say _‘nothing more, nothing else’ _as much as he wants, but he has seen him that night, how terrified and upset he was.

There’s something more, that’s for sure: why would he had reassured Louis _twice_ about it, otherwise? Did he leave his town because of him? He said that he maybe wasn’t even going to go back for _Christmas. _Does he have those terrible nightmares every night? He and Zayn had met because he sobbed on him for hours, still because of this Kees, because of _Careless Whisper _of all the things. It sounds like there’s a lot more to the story than what he’s saying now. But this is not the time to wonder about that: Harry, in front of him, looks exhausted and still so, so broken.

Harry shakes his head, like to free himself from the memories that must cloud his brain and to stop Louis from saying anything more.

“It’s whatever. It already happened,” and before Louis can argue with him a little more, he adds: “Can we… not talk about it? Please.” He finally looks at him again, his crystal eyes begging to understand him.

Louis nods back at him. The last thing he could want is to upset him even more. Today and tonight have been way too much for him, too. He gets up again, slowly, taking back his plate and glass.

“Anything you want, love.” He offers him a wobbly smile. “We can watch the shitty movie and cuddle on the sofa now, if you want to,” he whispers at him, trying his best to communicate this overwhelming feeling of _I got you, I’m going to protect you, you’ll never get hurt again, you have me now,_ he feels in his chest.

Harry nods, a sad, small smile on his lips. He looks relieved that Louis didn’t insist, and Louis is sure at least a crumble of his affection got to him.

He gets up, too, slowly, picking up his own stuff: then, probably to flex on Louis with his exaggerated hands, he picks up the cutlery left on the table and the bottles, too, without any problems. Louis rolls his eyes at that, and he smiles back.

Louis can see that he’s still a bit upset, but he doesn’t fret too much over that: what he said wasn’t a happy thing, and what he said himself wasn’t too happy either. Hell, the whole reason why he invited Harry here today isn’t that happy, too, so Louis knows that the best thing he could do now is to give him some space.

They clean the table together, and it’s ridiculous how domestic and easy that is. It’s so natural that Louis doesn’t even question it, doesn’t even stop to think how weird this is until they fold the tablecloth together spontaneously, without bumping in each other. Like that’s a normal thing mates do.

That, or the argument they have over the dirty dishes: after Louis had placed them in the sink, ready to forget about them until next morning, Harry picks up one and asks for the sponge and the dish soap.

“Are you out of your mind? You're a guest.” Louis’ shocked. Maybe this is normal upon Dutch youth, but he refuses to let Harry, among anyone, to wash his dirty dishes. He’d have to take off all his rings, you know? And what if his nail polish gets chipped? That’s not something that is going to happen in his kitchen.

Harry _pouts_. He pouts, like Louis is being mean to him. “Let me wash the dishes,” he repeats.

“Absolutely not. Put that down and go choose a movie, please.” Louis has his hands on his hips. That means it’s final.

“But I like it. I do!” he exclaims when Louis raises his brows at him.

“... You're a sociopath.” Louis’ at his capacity. Why was he hit by the weirdest biker in all Netherlands?

“Hey, that's not a nice thing to say. Like, about them.”

Of course that’s what Harry is going to focus on. They stare at each other some more, both refusing to lose ground to the other. There’s something, though, in Harry’s expression Louis can’t decipher: maybe he’s just tired, maybe he’s just drained because they didn’t have the lightest conversation up to that point, but it’s like Harry is asking him to _please_ let him to that for him. Louis always reads too much into people’s actions, especially lately, but he figures that maybe he can let Harry do that without feeling the worst host on the planet.

“... Okay,” he concedes. “I'll clean the rest of the kitchen in the meantime, then.”

He gives to a smiling Harry the needed material and turns around to clean the mess he has left in every other corner of the room: the knives, the peeler, the cutting board… he had spread stuff on every surface available. This kitchen is a war zone.

They’re not facing each other, both busy with whatever they have in hand, but they keep talking about futile stuff, things they’ll forget in the morning, about how Sven had announced he’s banning plastic in the office and then went out and bought glass bottles for all of them, about how Zayn and his obsession for fast fashion could maybe befriend him, and other things they don’t even register, lost in each other’s melodies.

Louis looks over his shoulder to steal a glance of Harry’s back: he looks at his broad shoulder, cover in sheer and roses, at his narrow waist, and thinks again about how much sufferance there must be in this sunny, cheerful boy, always so ready to help others.

Still looking at him, at the way he sways his hips and hums softly to himself, Louis thinks about what he said to Harry and thought to himself not long before, about moving away, losing his routines and his normal life.

Did he really lose everything? He thought so much of his life was gone forever, or maybe just until he moved back in England: but he’s still in Amsterdam now, and this is the most serene he’s felt in almost a year.

He smiles at himself and goes back to his duty.

When he looks at Harry, he sees the patience he always has from him, his will to always listen to him, his kindness and his smiles, as gentle as his oversized sweaters. When he looks at him, he knows he won’t be able to leave this city as easily as he thought he would.

When he looks at Harry now, he may even think that moving wasn’t such a mistake, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zee, kom hier, Louis is aan de telefoon: Zee, come here, Louis is on the phone  
Ons beiden?: us both?  
Je bent zo verdrietig dat je alleen moet gaan, of niet soms?: you must be so sad that you have to go alone, aren’t you?  
Hou je kop: shut up  
Dit is zo'n zegen voor je, kijk, je hebt nu een date: this is such a blessing for you, look, you have a date now  
Ik zei hou je kop, Zayn: I said shut up, Zayn  
******************  
The ethical crisis: when I started writing this, with the idea of having the precise days and weeks planned into the very core of the story, I didn’t think how the 7th of December would have been involved. Ignoring the matter felt so much more disrespectful than face it, but even doing so, this was so hard. Point is, I would never want to put my words or my feelings into Louis’ mouth or heart, and it felt completely disgraceful to do so. In the end, I had to remind myself that this is a work of fiction. The Louis and the Harry I portrait here are just a peculiar fragment I choose to represent in a story I was loving to write. I don’t have the insolence to think that this is how they could have felt, but, at the same time, grief is a universal feeling: maybe we don’t talk about it as much as we should, but it’s something we all feel. Ignoring it is never the answer, as Louis here said.  
******************  
Okay, something a little bit funnier (or at least I hope so): so, Harry’s ex name is Kees. Now, names are always very, very important to me. Every original name here has its meaning to be there, and Kees in particular took me a long time to find and chose. Wanna know why he's named like that? Kees is the Dutch variant of Cornelius. Cornelius in Latin means horns. In Italian there’s this saying when someone cheats on you, that is “to put horns on you”. So, yeah, that’s it (personally, I laughed by myself for quite a bit when I did this).  
******************  
So, this….. this took A LOT to write. A lot of courage, vulnerability, a lot of looking inside myself and deciding to go all in. It’s wasn’t easy at all to be so bare, and to share all of this now. The magnitude of grief comes and goes, sometimes you think you’ve managed it, and others it just comes back to smack you in the face and leave you breathless for days.
> 
> I would really appreciate you to tell me how this made you feel. Really, it would mean the world to me.
> 
> Last thing: [ my tumblr ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/), [ the fic post ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/post/625001364010024960/amsterdam-with-you), [ ‘awy’ tag on my tumblr](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/tagged/awy), and [ the playlist for the fic ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL5momjAjTuX6twPBNWmdXHrC46ATa8szU)
> 
> Next update is on the 8th, more or less! Kicking off my exam week (desperation on main)


	6. 8th - 12th of December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long and kinda poetic (?) explanation of the genesis of this chapter in the end notesss (bc it needed one) (I love love love this one)

**You looked stressed yesterday**

_That's because I was_  
_I still am btw_

Harry's such a weirdo. A weirdo with no filter.

Louis rolls back his shoulders until some muscle around his shoulder blade gets pulled and he almost yelps in pain. He presses the spot with his fingers, ignoring if he’s worsening the situation or not. As he said, he's stressed. He came to work earlier than usual today and has still dozens of unread emails and two meetings this afternoon.

Life's tough. Mondays are especially tough.

The day before him, Harry and Zayn went to fed fish at _Westerpark_: the weather was surprisingly sunny and calm, for once, and the pull of absorbing some D vitamin was too strong to stay at home working, wasting away the first sunny day he has seen in months.

Half of Amsterdam’s population, or more, has had their same idea, and the park was full of families and couples, all smiley and happy despite the wind and the humidity still very present. They even spotted some couples having picnics on the cold grass: as Louis said, the joy of sunbeam was too strong to mind how it was still five degrees outside.

Louis had never seen Zayn more in his element or happier than when he was feeding fish frozen vegetables surrounded by kids (“_bread's bad for them”_, had informed them Harry. “_Harry knows too many pieces of random information”_, Louis and Zayn had agreed on). Not that he was an expert on Zayn, as he has seen him just once before, but there Louis saw a new man: he was smiling so much his eyes had become half-moons, and he was genuinely enjoying teaching kids to respect fish and other animals, sharing with them the food they brought.

It was all fun and games until one of them started giving them his fries and nearly caused a revolution of kids throwing away their food: thankfully he was quickly stopped by his parents, who seize that opportunity to teach their son and the other kids around how food should never be wasted, other kids around the world were starving, and all of that.

Harry and Louis watched all the scene unleashing from afar, Harry taking pictures and both nearly crying with laughter at how Zayn was caught in the mid of it, with still his bag of frozen veggie in hand and a confused frown on his face, not sure if he could flee the scene or not. As soon as he could he went back to Louis and Harry, who were still laughing about how awkward and out of place he looked with his lilac hair, a full beard and a whole lot of eyeliner, surrounded by serious parents and their energetic kids who kept asking him about the wildlife. He had mumbled something in Dutch to Harry that made him snort, and the three had continued their walk around the park, soaking up as much sunlight as they could.

It was Zayn’s turn to laugh not long after, when Harry and Louis went to chase the seagulls, hoping to get a reaction out of them. Zayn remained at a safe distance, even tried to warn them, saying:

“Those are aggressive _as fuck_. They attack if provoked,” but of course they didn’t listen to him. Needless to say, the seagulls attacked them both, and they had to leave them all their veggies to escape.

It’s crazy that in all of that, while spending such a nice, fun, relaxing afternoon finally out with his friends, Louis still had moments where he had to excuse himself to answer emails or calls, the pain in his neck worsening. He was hoping they (or, better said, _Harry_) didn’t notice, but from this text it’s clear that he failed at being subtle.

Yesterday was such a good day, but today it’s already dark again. Louis looks out of the window near his desk: the sky is grey, the wind is strong, but it’s not raining. Everything is ordinary again.

**I may have the solution for it**

Louis looks at the new text for a moment, trying to guess what Harry is telling him.

_For what, my stress?_  
_Do you want to answer some of my mail for me?_

He sighs and turns to his computer again: maybe if he gets less distracted he can finish this share of work before lunchtime. His phone rings again and he takes his phone back immediately: who’s kidding, this is the most boring part of his job, and there’s nothing he can do to kid himself into enjoying it. He wants to talk to authors, discussing their themes, spurring them to keep writing, and finally figuring out together the best way to publish their work: that’s the nice bit, not the bureaucracy he’s fighting it with now.

**I have a full-time job, too**  
**So m afraid no**  
**Are u afraid of heights?**  
**And! Do you get motion sickness??**  
**Just straight up translated that with google ah**

Louis frowns at the screen. What is he on about?

_This convo is getting weird_  
_But no, I’m not_  
_And no, I don’t_

Harry doesn’t replay for a long time after that: enough for Louis to drink two cups of tea, bumping into Dael and receive even more paperwork, and having a chat with Isa over her two years old daughter and her newfound love for ladybugs. Louis makes a mental note to buying something for her before he departures for the Christmas holiday: it’s only eleven days afar. Time seems to rush since he had met Harry.

**I need u to get out of work early on Wednesday**, it’s how Harry decides to continue their conversation, hours later. A bit demanding, in Louis’ opinion.

_Harry, I can’t_, Louis sighs and types away, trying to keep up with him.  
_I told you, I have too much to do_  
_I don’t want to take this crap back home with me_

That’s a complete exaggeration: there’s no way he is going to bring so much work back home, but if it’s what will make his point across, he’ll say it.

**And that is stressing you**  
**Yes**  
**That’s the point**  
**But what if I have something that will make you feel better?**  
**Like, less stressed?**

_… And what’s that?_ Louis frowns at the text. Harry is being so obnoxious about all of this: as he said, he has too much to do to randomly leave early one day just because he feels like it. And he can’t picture something that could effectively take away his stress: it’s embodied with him, by now.

**Can’t tell you yet**  
**It’s a surprise!!**  
**:D!**

Louis snorts out loud at that. Harry types like it’s still 2009, sometimes.

**I already booked it, too**  
**So, unless there’s an actual reason, you’ll get out early on Wednesday.**

_I have to leave early and you won’t even tell me what is it??_  
_Told you, I can’t_

**Oh c’mon**  
**I swear it’ll be worth it**

Louis sees Harry typing and deleting his texts a couple of times before he sends him:

**If it’s not, I’ll bake u the cinnamon cookies I was talking about on Friday**

Louis smiles.

_How early is early_, he types, knowing that by asking that he’s already admitting defeat.

**15?**

_That’s not that bad_  
_I can do that, _Louis answers honestly: 15 is just about one hour less than usual, he can easily regain the work at home. Harry’s surprise better be worthing it, though.

**I’ll tell u where to meet later**

_Ok_  
_Bye, Harry_

**You’ll love it!!**  
**I promise :))x**

_I said bye_

**Ok whatever, bye**  
**Grouch**  
**Have fun with your mails**

_Have fun with the elderly._

**I will!! You know I will**  
**They’re sunshines compared to you**  
**:))) xxxx**

Louis locks his phone and gets back to his emails, smiling so big his cheeks hurt.

~*~

"Louis?"

"Yeah?"

"Maybe you should buy a bike."

"And maybe you should've bought a scarf, but no one's perfect, right?"

Harry stares at him for a second, his cheeks flushed by their run and from the wind, then shrugs and gets inside the ferry without a word. Louis rolls his eyes and follows him inside: they almost lost it and had to run for the last hundreds of metres. His face is flushed and hot, while the tips of his ears are freezing. He pushes down his beanie even more, breathing heavily. He's becoming so unfit, not playing football anymore, not doing any kind of physical activity, and for sure the number of cigarettes he's smoking lately doesn't help either.

He doesn't know what to say to Harry: it's not his fault if his bus was late, and he's not getting on a bike for anything in the world. Maybe Harry and his obsession with bikes are planning on killing him.

Despite the cold Harry gets on the bow of the ferry, and there he stops to looks at the fleeting grey water under them. Louis looks around, admiring the view for the first time: doesn't even know if what they're navigating is a channel still, because it's so big it looks more like a river or a fjord, even.

Harry, on his left, is shivering from the cold, his neck exposed, lamenting its missing scarf. Today's weather is worse than usual: surprisingly still not raining, but much colder than usual. The strong wind on the ferry is so biting it's making them red in the face, their eyes and noses are watering: it's not cute at all, it's so different from the romantic idea of the _'rosy cheeks'_ look. This is what true cold looks like: eyes half-closed, tears and them holding down their beanies on their heads.

Louis suggests they go inside after that, because as beautiful as the waters look, they can see them even from there. Harry agrees immediately, and when they walk inside they're greeted by a breath of warm air and the sight of so many people, bikes and baby charts. The majority of the people look bored, and Louis wonders if this is a normal, daily commute for them. He, on the other hand, doesn’t even remember last time he was on a boat, and finds this far too exciting.

He smiles at a mother who's looking outside with her toddler in her arms: they're the only people, along with him and Harry, who are looking at the waves in amaze. He looks at the other shore, still distant, and wonders again what they are going to do here.

"You still haven't said what we're gonna do," he reminds Harry, who's now shaking visibly less, but is keeping his hands buried into his pocket and his shoulders up to his ears.

For a moment, earlier, when Louis saw _Amsterdam Centraal_, he had thought they were going to take a train and have a day trip together somewhere. He had found himself liking the idea of running away with him and spending the day together while exploring a new city. But they just crossed the train station and went to the pier, and Louis still doesn’t know what they will find on the other side.

"We're going in _Amsterdam Noord_, it's a neighbourhood," Harry replies, ignoring the actual question. "It's there," he points the other side of the shore. "Have you ever been there?" He puts his hand back into his pocket. Even his hands are trembling. Louis just hopes that whatever they're doing is an indoor activity, like cinema, maybe. He hasn’t been to a cinema for _ages_.

"Just once, I went... Aemh... There?" Louis points somewhere slightly more on the right, but he's not very sure about it. "There was a presentation for my company in this gigantic empty room, with so many, like, mechanical things? It was at the, emh, the _Krom-hu_ something, I don’t know, I don’t remember the name," Louis cringes, then shrugs. "Don't mind my pronunciation or my sense of direction, please."

Harry snorts. “The _Kromhouthal_, maybe?” he suggests, with just a hint of smugness in his tone.

“Yeah, that one.” Everything sounds so easy out of Harry’s mouth. _Kromhouthal._ What a complicated word. What an overly complicated language.

Harry smiles, biting his lower lip, like he’s trying to not spill the words won’t saying. "There's a Christmas market there now, you know? It’s super pretty. Fairy lights and all of that. We can go there after, if you want."

"After _what_, Harry, that was my question," Louis stresses again.

But Harry only smiles with his eyebrows pulled up, shrugging with the palm of his hands up to his shoulders, and he’s too pure to be minded, to candid for Louis to insist. He prefers to be teased like this, just to get to see this all sugary version of fake innocence Harry can pull up.

Harry looks out of the window again, gaze low to observe the dark water under them. Louis looks at him instead, not caring at how Harry can obviously tell. It doesn’t matter, because Harry already knows how Louis looks at him.

It's more than that: he just really doesn't care about what they are going to do. It doesn't matter to him, as long as they spend this time with each other. Unable to express his fondness, he turns to look at the water with him, leaning towards the window, their shoulders pressed together, like always.

"Do you think here live some of the fish we fed some days ago?" Harry wonders, genuine, after a while.

Louis realises just there, in his incapacity to roast him about such a dumb question, how bad he has it over him. "Do you think they commute so much, every day? That's a long distance." God, he's even enabling him now. He has it worse than he had imagined.

Harry nods, like Louis’ observation deserves to be taken in serious consideration. "Maybe here live, like, their grandparents," he proposes.

"And those in the city are the virtuous nephews? Yeah, could be." Louis is trying to imagine the whole scene, and he’s already smiling.

"Yeah,” Harry nods, like they’re getting somewhere. “They went to the city for Uni, but they never call anymore. Too busy partying and drinking."

"That's heartbreaking, Haz, don't make me cry about fish drama."

Harry snorts, still looking at the water. They keep chatting about fish and even more useless things until, with a jolt, they land on the other shore.

They wait for the workers with their briefcases, the bikes and the families to hop off, these last ones accompanied by their bulky strollers and those gigantic ones linked to their bikes. The mom Louis smiled at before walks away quickly, her boy now holding her hand and talking animatedly about something he can't understand. He smiles at them, and sees how everyone had already left, sure about the direction to take or the next thing to do with their day.

Everyone except for him and Harry, who are still on the pier.

"I can give you a hint," Harry calls from behind him. Louis turns to him: the pallid yellow from the winter sun makes him look ethereal, with his hair ruffled from the wind and his eyes still watery from the cold. Every colour in the picture is washed down, except for his bitten red lips. Louis had been thinking about those a lot, lately. "We're close to it." He's having too much fun with all of this, winding Louis up and keeping him in the dark. Louis looks around, but there's nothing around them: just buildings, some roads and the pier. He pulls his eyebrows up at him, expectantly.

"You're gonna know as soon as you see it," Harry singsongs.

He doesn't move, so Louis takes another look around. "There's nothing here," he says slowly, like maybe Harry could be having a delusion.

"It's because you're not looking in the right direction."

_Is he for real._ "Harry, I've looked in _every_ direction."

"What about up? You didn't look up," his grin is ready to break off his face.

"Why should I even look-" his voice dies in his throat. Harry starts laughing. "Shut the fuck up, no, _no way_," he screams once he finds his voice again.

"Yes! Yes way!" He keeps laughing.

"Harry, we're not doing _that_," he repeats.

"Ow, c’mon _sunshine_, it'll be fun!"

He has been calling him sunshine since their exchange of texts the other day, making fun of him for being so grumpy all the time: Louis doesn’t know how much is that, and how much is Harry genuinely wanting to call him that. Either way, Louis kind of likes it, in an _‘I’ll fake annoyance but don’t you dare stop’_ kind of way. But right now, he just wants to strangle him.

What he's looking at doesn't look very promising: there's a swing at the top of the skyscraper they're looking up to. He can't even see the people sitting on it, _that’s how high it is_, just the seats swinging at a height people _shouldn't be able to swing_. He remains to stare at that, gaping like a fish, unable to scream to Harry some more.

"I've booked it for 4 pm. Will you still be there staring at it by that hour?" Harry nudges him with his elbow.

"Give me a mo' to accept my fate, at least," he mutters back. He’s still hasn’t taken his eyes off it: the mechanic movement is making him dizzy even from down there. _No way in hell_, he thinks again. They’re going to take the ferry back and enjoy a tea, or maybe they’ll go straight to the _Kroh-whatever_ market thing and take one there. Damn, he has already forgotten how it was called.

"You're so dramatic, sunshine." Louis knows Harry is smiling even without looking at him. Also, see, this one of those moments he was talking about before: that _sunshine_ didn't sound ironic at all.

Louis clears his throat and looks at Harry again: he still has his cheeky smile on, but something about him looks dimmed. "Sorry if I have my family to visit in ten days, it'll be a shame to die before that," Louis growls, with his best grumpy grandpa voice.

"How could I ever forget," Harry rolls his eyes. "That's all you talk about."

Louis shrugs and doesn't even bother denying it. He's not wrong, after all.

Harry starts biting his lower lip, in silence, and Louis knows that look: he looks nervous. Harry _is_ a bit nervous and a bit insecure, like he's scared Louis may actually be mad at him for doing this, to have surprised him with something so unusual. He keeps biting his lower lip, not looking at him and trying to be nonchalant about it, and Louis, despite being as nervous and as cranky as he is, doesn't want Harry to feel like that. He's surprised and a bit scared, sure, but he can also be intrigued. Just the tiniest little bit, but enough to challenge himself and go to the damned swing, if that’s what will make Harry stop being so hesitant.

Above all, he knows how fun is to banter with Harry, but not to the point where he’s genuinely unsure of Louis’ feelings. He should never be that, _Louis would never make him feel like that._

“So,” he starts again. Harry stops his chewing and raises his eyebrows at him. Louis’ fond is uncontainable, and he stops to smile back at him. Just the sight of him with his eyes wide open and the theatrical expression… it’s simply too much for Louis. He has accepted it: the frog expression will always get him.

“Okay! Okay, let’s go, I’m ready,” he concedes, enjoying how excitement pours out again out of every line in Harry’s expression. He’s always so full of life, it’s like he gets to experience emotions in caps lock, stronger than anyone else does, and then he gifts the rest of the world with his own joy.

“I won,” Harry giggles.

_You’ll always do, at least with me,_ Louis thinks, but: "how does this work?" is how he continues, starting to walk again toward the skyscraper. He doesn’t feel ready at all, but he figures it’s better to just do it instead of wallowing in his fears. He's intimidated, sure, but the first shock is now gone, and he can see how fun it must be. If the swing doesn't break and sends you into the pavement and to an early death, of course.

"Don't know, 've never done it before." Harry looks a lot better now; his chipper nature is back and he's almost skipping behind Louis. "I've wanted to do it for months, it looks _a-mazing_. But Zayn is terrified by high heights and the only time I suggested it to him, he laughed in my face," Harry stops his leaps to pout at Louis. "So rude."

"You poor thing, Zayn's for sure the rude one here," he comments with too much sarcasm. "Good thing you had me to surprise, hadn't you?" Louis nudges him with his elbow, this time way less sarcastic than what his question alone would entail. He doesn't move away, and keep walking with their arms brushing together, like they always do. It's such a little thing, but so, so comforting. Harry is always warm, and always ready to welcome his cuddles.

"Good thing that I have you, yeah,” Harry smiles softly back at him, and Louis doesn’t even have the time to react to that, because in the same breath Harry adds: “The face you made when you saw it, though, you were _shook_," he starts laughing at him. "You went all like," he makes a poor imitation of Louis' expression, all wide eyes and mouth hanging open.

"You stop that. Stop!" He repeats, slapping him gently on the shoulder when Harry adds a gasp to it. He can't help but laugh with him at all this, though. Harry laughs with him, looking at him with soft eyes. "I thought we were gonna see a movie, y'know, like normal people do. Didn't expect this for my Wednesday plans."

"_We should just-_" Harry starts to sing, then stops and hums the rest, repeating the melody a couple of times.

Louis frowns, trying to pinpoint the melody Harry was singing, but when he can’t he asks him: "What's that song? I think I've heard it before," after a couple of seconds of silence.

"Yeah, you might have, it's Hozier's."

At that, Louis shrugs. "Don't really know him. Too popular for me."

Harry turns to him with a frown and a smile, like he was expecting that. "So what? Not everything that's popular is bad, Lou."

Louis makes a face at him. "Yeah, sure. Next thing you'll tell me some shit, like that avocado it's actually good. Or that Game of Thrones is a good series, or some other shits."

Harry honks out a laugh. "Well, I do love avocado, so..."

Louis shakes his head at him. "I can't with you."

They keep bickering for all the way inside the futuristic-looking skyscraper, past the gift shops and all the way to the reception, where a sunny girl in her red uniform is waiting for them to stop arguing over nothing, ready to answer their questions.

But there isn’t much to ask, because once there, Louis discovers that Harry had already paid everything, so even if he protests there isn't much he can do. He keeps trying to find ways to buy time and put off going up there, because it’s finally so warm and _not windy_ in here, and he already knows how much worse it’s going to be on the roof.

_On a swing on a roof_, to be precise. He’s just starting to get the motion of his fingers back.

Harry is seeing past his act and has no intention of letting him waste even more precious time, too excited to be slowed down by Louis’ fake interests for the gift shop or the ceilings. He walks with long strides to where the receptionist had pointed them, not caring at how he’s leaving Louis behind.

They get on the _fun_ elevator, an obnoxious name for a lift to the sky, which reveals to be a sweet and short experience with lights, sounds effects and graphics screenings on the ceiling on their way up, that make both of them say various ‘_aaah’s_’ and ‘_oooh’s_’, and before they know it the doors open again.

The girl who had accompanied them starts explaining the mapping of the floor, pointing out the various attractions. Louis lets Harry doing all the pleasantries, staring ahead at a window that looks to an angry grey sky. What are they doing, so up in the sky? _Humans shouldn’t be here. Humans are made to stay on the ground_, he keeps thinking.

Despite his worries he still manages to catch Harry by an elbow, stopping him to run up the last flight of stairs and going outside.

“Harry-”

“What now? You said that you were ready. It’s gonna be amazing! Don’t you trust me?” He’s fretting, too excited to notice how frozen he still is, but Louis does: his face is still an unhealthy shade of red, and he hasn’t let his hands out of his pockets yet. If he goes out now, he’ll catch a fever. He may not care, but Louis won’t let that happen. Also, he’s still so, so frozen too, and would love to catch a breath before going outside again.

“Of course I do,” Louis replies, appalled. “And I want to do it, for real. I just…” he lingers for a second, trying to find something interesting to offer him. “I wanted to ask if you wanna see the landscape from here,” he ends, nodding with his head towards the big, floor to ceiling windows that enwrap the buildings. “You could take some nice pics, I reckon.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes, like he didn’t even think about that possibility. “Sure.”

The view is… breath-taking.

The cloudy sky merges into the channels, and every corner of the city is stroked by a delicate, pallid light. A mild fog imbues everything their eyes can touch, making the scene seems like a dream.

The ferries cross the channel, making white ruffles on the crests of the dark water. They seem to go so slowly, without a care in the world. It’s so different from how they experienced the crossing, where they could feel the velocity, the wind, their heavy breaths condensing in such a crowded space.

Louis tells Harry all of this and more, because Harry always listens to him, even when he’s talking without a purpose, just for the joy of sharing something so small.

“Look how small the people seem,” Harry says back. “This is one of my favourite things. You feel so… separated from them, yeah? Like you’re from another planet. Like you could just observe them.” He takes photos on photos, checking different angles and perspectives. He had never let Louis see them, but then again, Louis never asked.

“It’s a bit like what you said, isn’t it?” Louis wonders, still looking down. Harry makes a murmur, like he wants him to continue, so Louis does: “when we talked the first time. How people here don’t know you, and how liberating that is. How you could be anyone, because you don’t owe them anything.”

Harry has turned slightly to him, with a mute expression and fire behind his eyes.

“Ye- yeah,” he stutters a bit, after a pause. “It’s like that, like-” he continues, but Louis is not listening to him anymore, too projected into what he’s thinking.

He remembers so well everything they’ve ever talked about, but he hasn’t thought about this in a long time. He’s not in England, not anymore, and he knows that, like he also knows how he doesn’t know anyone here: his loneliness doesn’t make that easy to forget.

But he has never seen it in this perspective: no one knows him, either. Even with all his responsibilities intact, he could do whatever he wants. He _could_. He doesn’t have to explain every little thing to his friends or to his sisters, and not even to himself, if he concentrates hard enough.

He could stop running from the future he has depicted from himself, the future he’s _forcing_ on himself, even, as long as he remains here. He doesn’t know if the _here_ is on this roof or in Amsterdam, but suddenly he feels detached, too, like Harry, like everyone is from the strangers they walk beside each day or share a ride in a ferry, even.

All those imperative he has, those _musts_ he has forced on himself can be delayed, just a tiny bit. Those are still the things he wants the most in life, but now he realises how in the making, in his way up, he had lost himself in a maze.

He can see that now, hundreds of metres from the ground: the world keeps going without a care. It doesn’t care about him, and that’s the most liberating feeling he has felt in _years_. He’s up here with Harry and with no one else, because no one else could have convinced him to come here in the first place.

That must mean something, right? More than what he lets himself think of.

Harry is back to looking down, and Louis yet again has no idea for how much time he has been out of it. Does it matter? Of course it does, but maybe not as much as Harry being always there for him, waiting for him to resurface, never rushing him or snapping.

Louis unlocks his phone: it’s five to four.

“Let’s go, I’m ready now.”

Harry’s smile is the only thing that matters.

The swing looks terrifying up close.

“How's this gonna help with my stress, anyway? By straight up killing me?” It’s the only comment Louis has the heart to make. Making Harry annoyed it’s revealing to be one of the most satisfying things in the world.

He’s screaming, too: the wind here is so strong that they were told to remove their hats before stepping on the platform. _“They could fly off your heads,”_ they’ve been told. _“It’s for safety reasons,”_ they’ve added, and Louis had felt the urge to make them understand that he was ready to sue them if Harry had gotten even just a cold. He’s past being worried about himself, but he can’t say the same for Harry.

“Louis,” Harry screams back. He has stars in his eyes, and he’s staring the machine with reverence. “You have to chill out sometimes. Like, it's a thing you should try.” He takes his eyes off that and places them on Louis, smirking just a little. “Think about it this way: if you die, no more stress.”

“That's encouraging. Thank you for sharing, Haz,” he mutters and goes back to see the monster in motion.

First thing first, it’s _huge_. So, so much bigger than he expected.

The structure looks like, ten metres tall, and Louis is exaggerating, okay, but that doesn’t mean much when you’re on top of a building _this_ _high_, near a channel _that big_. But in all this, the wires look so thin, the seats so small and fragile, their seatbelts so useless.

When the couple before them had stepped in, both cheerful like Harry is, Louis had felt ready for it; that was, until the seats had risen and the swing was set in motion.

Now he has a mixture of adrenaline, anticipation and genuine fear in his veins: it’s not fast, but the overhung is _wide_. It doesn’t go over the edge, which is a bonus, but he’s too dizzy for the many feelings to count that as one.

Harry, on the other hand, is just buzzing, hopping on his tiptoes both for the cold and the excitement. Louis would love to join his excitement, but he can’t stop thinking about tragic aftermaths that could occur. Damn, Harry is so right, he has to stop with all this overthinking, it can’t be healthy, he should-

The swing stops and comes back to its base.

Louis’ heart gets louder in a second, thumping against his ears, his chest, his hands. Harry takes him from an arm and yanks him forward, and Louis lets him, not sure of his feet.

The couple gets off, even chipper than before, and fall into each other’s arms in a chaos of laughter and squeals. Louis looks at them walking away, unable to register what is happening.

It’s their turn, so they step in, and for the first time Louis sees how horrific it really is: the wires _are_ thin, the seatbelts _are_ a bit useless, and suddenly the skyscraper looks so taller than before. They get their seatbelts fastened by one guy from the security, who jokes with Harry and tries to do the same with Louis, but obviously fails.

Louis wants to tell Harry something, anything before it happens: he has a storm in his chest, he’s still dizzy by what he saw and what he understood when they were looking out of the window. Usually he tells Harry everything but he didn’t have the time to say all of that; he wants to share a crumble of it with him, but this is too much, it’s just too much of confusion and too much clarity, at the same time. So, he doesn’t say anything.

Harry hasn’t stopped talking for a second, like he always does, and it’s all about how everything is _amazing_, the _view_, the _wind_, and Louis loses himself in those shrills, feeling comfortable in the pattern of his speech.

But then the swing goes up.

He can’t hear anything, now: the wind blows in his ears and it’s _painful_, his stomach rolls under his heels, he’s hanging out of a skyscraper and the only thing he thinks about is how much he has changed his mind, how he wants to get off, until… until the swing is set in motion.

The first stroke is more like a punch: he’s thrown in the air like a dove set free, like a balloon in the hand of a distracted child.

There’s just the sky and the channel, but wait, _wait_, they are the same, there’s no separation, no horizon, all walls are curved, he’s in a sphere, he’s above the world, he can see everything now.

Suddenly, he’s flying over the channel. He’s not tied up to his seat anymore, he doesn’t know where the swing, the skyscraper are, he can’t see them anymore and it doesn’t matter, because he’s flying high and the only thing he can see is water beneath him, the endless sky above and the city, so, so far away.

The wind is cutting down in his skin, his face hurts from the cold but there’s a fire in his chest. It has always been there, but it was dozed until now, so much he had forgotten about it: the wind is giving life back to it, and he can feel it growing and growing.

There’s something squeezing his hand, and turning his head he flies back to his seat, but it lasts only a second, because it’s Harry, Harry is _holding his hand_ and he’s laughing and screaming. He sounds like he’s made of air and light, like he was made to be up there, not down in the street like any other human. Maybe he’s an angel.

Louis squeezes his hand back, and with their hand clap so tight he realises he was screaming the whole time, too, and turns his face towards the infinite again and keeps emptying his lungs, his stomach, his chest.

He feels finally clean and empty from the dark and the bitterness he has swallowed in this past year: he is rejecting it all, he’s spitting it back into the world. It has no space inside him, anymore.

He keeps screaming and holding Harry’s hand and he’s not a human anymore, he’s a bird, he’s flying high and no one could ever stop him or bring him back to earth.

He’s free, he’s free, _he’s free_.

Then, he sees the light.

He finally understands.

And when he does, he squeezes Harry’s hand even stronger, tighter, because that is his only anchor with the physical world, still, the only thing that is saying _‘it’s all real, it’s all happening’_.

He knows Harry won’t notice the difference and he knows that is not important, because Harry already knows. He had known before him, and that’s okay, that’s perfect, because he had been waiting for him, standing in the light, but now Louis finally sees and understand, and he’s not going to forget about this or ignore it or rationalise it, because it’s impossible: it’s too loud, it’s too obvious. It’s just right.

Before they know it, the swing stops and turns back to its base.

Louis closes his mouth but can still feel their screaming in his ears, can still feel the fire in his chest. He’s still holding Harry’s hand and makes no motion to let it go.

Coming back to earth feels wrong after you’ve been in the clouds, past them. Everything’s too heavy. But the earth has kept his new colours, Louis can still see past the line that divides the sky from the water.

He still knows.

“Guys, you should step off the platform, thank you,” a hazy voice says, after someone with hands but no body, no face, no physical form had untied their belts.

Louis can feel his heartbeat palpitating through his hand into Harry’s. He can feel the eyes of the guys from the security on them, but he doesn’t care. Do they know? Can they see past these walls? Would they even understand what Louis has just seen, what he has just realised?

“Lou, let’s go,” Harry whispers to him. He’s not letting his hand go, either, but that is the only thing that makes him nod, open his hand and step off the swing.

It takes him a couple of steps to remember how to walk, a couple of seconds to focus his eyes on the ground and not on the sky anymore.

Harry, next to him, it’s a totally different story, though. He’s skipping, bouncing with explosive energy, and he keeps talking and Louis can only hear his voice coming and going.

“_Oh god_, _verdomme_, that was... Wooooo, just woooah, yeah?” he’s bouncing, he’s still screaming, all his adrenaline his bursting out. He has a manic grin on his face, he’s moving his hands like he has no idea how to shake off all the energy trapped inside him.

“Ye- Yeah,” it’s all Louis can give back to him.

The world is wider than before, the colours brighter, and Harry, somehow, is more beautiful than before they had stepped on the roof. Nothing makes sense but _life doesn’t have to_.

“And like, when we went forward?? It felt like we were sooo far,” his eyes are so big. They shimmer. “Like, so, so far,” he keeps smiling with his whole mouth open, too happy to stay still, his dimples two pools of pure joy.

Louis had never told him how much he loves his two front teeth, how they make him look just a bit like a bunny. Not that this is the right moment, but everything about him now seems amplified, brighter, vivid, and he can’t stop staring at them. Everything about Harry is just so lovely, Louis adores every bit of him.

“It felt like we were floating above the sea, that was so cool,” Louis adds, unable to put into words the experience he had.

“Yeah, that!” Harry turns his back to him and starts walking away. Louis follows him, without a clue. “And the first, emh, I don’t know, blow?!, I wasn't ready, I started screaming from my heart, you know?”

“I don't even know which one was my voice and which yours, there was too much... Of everything.” _Like they were a single entity. Just like us, and our hands claps so tight. It felt right, didn’t it? I want to hold your hand again._

“Yeah! It felt like flying, and the sky was soooo big, and-”

“Where are you going?” they’ve walked past the doors, but Harry’s still going.

“There.” He points at the opposite side of the roof. His hand is covered with his gloves and he has his beanie back on, but his whole body is shaking. “I want to see the sunset.”

“Harry, you… you are shaking, it’s freezing here.” Now that they’ve stopped to talk, Louis can see how his face his red, bitten by the wind, how Harry is still jumping because if he stops, he’ll freeze.

“Nah, it's the adrenaline, still,” he smiles, but he stops immediately, like even that is too much effort to do while standing still.

And Louis, oh, Louis.

He doesn’t want to go inside, he doesn’t want to go back to the cold, dark ground, either. There nobody knows, nobody understands, but Harry looks like seconds away from hypothermia and too excited to recognise it.

“Your teeth are chattering,” it’s what he manages to say, his breath coming out in shutters, erratic white clouds forming before him. “We are going inside,” and nobody wants that less than him, but Harry’s too high on adrenaline, and all Louis wants is to take care of him.

Harry rolls his eyes, like he has been expecting it, and whines back: “But, the sunset... Look how pretty it is!” he points at the pallid sky, covered in dark clouds, with just a hint of light. Louis would say _but you’re so much prettier_, even if it sounds daft to even his own ears, but every colour around them is cold and vibrant and Harry is the only source of warmness. He’s brighter than the sun itself. “It'll be over in minutes. Please?” he pouts at him, and he’s a child, and Louis can never say no to him on any occasion, so how can anyone expect him to do so _now_?

They’re in this magical bubble, here, surrounded by only sky and light, and they’re sharing something even now, even if Harry maybe doesn’t know yet, and Louis is not ready to let this go. He doesn’t want to go back and break this moment, he doesn’t want to think about what is waiting for him outside this rooftop, not yet. He wants to keep screaming at the top of his lungs, launched in the air and holding Harry’s hand, he wants to see the sunset with him, he wants to kiss those red lips more than anything.

_(There's a magnet inside his chest, he just wants to get closer to him. That's all he'll ever want)._

“Ok, fine.” He gets closer. “You win,” _you’ll always do_, he thinks again.

Harry lets out another squeal, all dimples and pure joy.

“Let's go then,” Louis says again, and takes his hand, moving past him and guiding him towards the other end.

He has missed Harry’s hand so much even if it’s been minutes, because it fits in his like it’s made just for him; it’s so cold and stiff it’s worrying, Louis can tell even past the double layer of gloves, but now he feels selfish enough to keep holding it and keep walking towards the edge, instead of doing a 180° and going back inside to make him drink tea, because Harry _is holding his hands back_, and he’s squeezing it like his life depends on it.

He’s letting Louis pulling him to the other side of the roof, following him blindly: he always lets Louis does whatever he wants, he trusts him so much, and Louis usually doesn’t know what to with all this trust, with all this affection, he always wonders if it’s too much, if Harry had mistaken him for someone else, but not now. Now he knows this is right.

They’re going to the opposite side, and there’s no one else but them, because it’s so cold, so windy it hurts their faces, so who the hell would want to be outside now, and so up in the sky?

Just them, with too many fireworks inside their chests to ever feel the cold, to ever fear it.

The adrenaline pumps in his veins, Louis can feel it now and he is vibrating with life, he has to jump, to scream, to celebrate life, because life had given this to him.

Life had given him the worst heartbreaks, so much pain that left him to wonder how could it even be worth keep fighting on, and then it had guided him to Amsterdam, to loneliness, solitude and silence, until a flicker of light had sparked again in his life.

And this flutter, trembling hope is now holding his hand.

Harry lets him yank him around, and he is still talking about the swing. Harry always talks so, so much, to the point that Louis sometimes has no idea what to say back, like now: Louis replays to him as much as he can, comparing how different they had experienced it, because for Harry it was fun and exciting and he would ‘_totally do it again, even soon, maybe_’, but for Louis that wouldn’t even be physically possible, because he feels like his third eye is now open and that can’t happen more than once, right?

He doesn't know for how long it will last, he doesn’t know that if he doesn't do it now, maybe there will be no other right moment in their life for this. He feels like he wants to live life to the fullest, he wants to feel like that again, free as light, and there can't be a better way to do that than kissing the beautiful, kind and frankly hilarious man he's holding hands with, because Harry himself is a beacon of life and joy. Louis may have been scared of consequences before, but now there are no consequences now, no future, just them and an endless sky.

And even if there were, he can't fear them when all he can see is light. Everything will be alright, he knows that now, and it will be even better when he'll finally kiss Harry.

The hand he's holding is not enough, he wants to turn around and hold Harry in arms, he can feel the need to be closer to him everywhere in him.

They arrive at the other railing and it's so, so magical because the sunset it's so pallid and yellow, there's no red, no orange, no majestic clouds, just a weak winter sun going down quickly. Despite all of that Louis knows he has never seen something as perfect before: because it's not about the sun, it's about how Harry still hasn't let go of his hand he hasn't either, it's about how he turns to him and takes a real look at him for the first time since they got off of that swing.

When he does, and they locks eyes, Harry shuts up for the first time they step off the swing, leaving his half sentence hanged between them. Louis can see how nervous and unsure he is: such a different look from the usual, when he's confident in his every skill, from his weird fashion choices to his theories about the universe.

His eyes are big and skittish and he's biting his lips, but he’s also burning with anticipation and confusion, and Louis just want him to be sure, in whatever outcome. Louis wants him to be as confident and as happy as he almost always is. Louis wants to take that pain that sits in the violets under his eyes and launch it so far it can never hurt him again.

And Harry has his lips and his face red because of the wind and the cold, tears in his eyes, he has tears _down his nose_, he keeps biting his lip, and Louis has never seen someone so perfect or so beautiful before, and he has to control himself, he has to remember to slow down his movements when he slides his hand on Harry's neck, when he caresses his cheek with his thumb, ghosting over a dimple that's so deep he could hide there and forget about the world.

He wants to ask, he wants to say something, anything, but there aren't any words left on earth, there's no sky, no roof, no time or space, there are just him and Harry freezing in their limbs and burning in their chests at the same time, shaking in front of both the sun and the moon.

They're the only thing that is real, the only thing that makes sense.

So he just tilts his head and locks their eyes again and see how words are an overkill, because now Harry knows what Louis wants, he has read it in his eyes, in his sure gestures, in his soft caresses, and is looking at him with the same hunger, the same wonder, the same hope, the same excitement, the same understanding.

Louis can read this in his eyes and so, so much more, so he finally lifts himself up on his tiptoes and kisses him.

They remain like that for an unmeasurable time, still, the shock, the adrenaline and the cold too big to fight, to overcome, but when Louis opens his mouth everything changes: the distance between their bodies, where the cold is trying to settle in to separate them, gets annulled and Louis forgets where his numbs lips end and Harry's freezing ones start.

Harry is kissing him like he wants to devour him.

When they separate the sun has already gone down, and a trail of shy light blue it's the only thing it has left behind.

Louis gets back on his feet and looks at wild creature he has in front of him: Harry is staring at him, his eyes bugging out of his face, his mouth still open, like he doesn’t know what just happened, like he’s waiting for a confirmation, something that will assure him, that will say ‘_hey, it was real’_. The soft light makes his face so warm, so human, just like Louis has known him for all these days and weeks: soft, human, gentle; the difference between him the dull grey sky behind him is stark.

Louis' hands are still on his cheeks and he has no intention of moving them, on ever going anywhere else than just here, and he leaves them there when he gives Harry another peck, a quick kiss over his half open mouth, just because he can. _He can_.

He lets out a shaky laugh at how Harry is still staring, like he doesn't know what or how it happened, like he’s happy but he missed the how the dots got linked together to form this picture, like he's still coming down of the adrenaline and the shock.

“Uh”, Harry finally breaths out.

Louis grins again, feeling high of him.

“I-” Harry moves a step towards him, to get even closer, but somehow he manages to trip over nothing and launch himself in Louis arms, who catches him and holds him tight. “Oops,” he murmurs, and curls on Louis’ chest.

“Hi.” Louis moves his hair out his face, lowering his beanie back to his head. “Hi, love,” he repeats, like the shock destroyed ever second thought, every uncertainty, leaving only trust. Truth. Harry remains in his arms, shivering like before, but that confusion in his eyes doesn't go away.

“But I thought...” He starts but doesn't finish, leaving the words to hang between them.

Louis asks _what_, curious, but Harry doesn't reply anymore, remains curled on Louis' chest like a kitten. That's when Louis' brain connects again with reality and notices again how much Harry is still shivering. He uses just one arm, the one that’s not hugging Harry with, to take his scarf off and place it around Harry's neck.

“What-” Harry follows Louis’ movements with his eyes, still not moving. “What are you doing?”

Louis tucks it under his chin. “You’re freezing. You'll end up sick, you're shaking,” he starts to rub Harry’s shoulder. Taking his scarf off felt like being bunked with a bucked of ice-cold water, but he’d do this and a lot more for him.

“And you won't?” he mumbles, his face directly into Louis’ chest, still without making any attempt on moving.

“Yeah, I'll fall sick with worry if you don't take it, love,” he huffs. “You're shivering, come on.” _Let me take care of you,_ it's what he doesn't say.

“Thank you,” Harry finally says, and adjusts it around his neck with his clumsy, frozen hands: they’re so stiff he's having issues using them.

“Of course, love.” Louis helps him out again, never passing an opportunity to touch him. When they’re done, he smiles so big has to bite his own cheeks, to make sure he won’t explode. “You really need a tea, now,” he says, to distract himself from thinking how good he looks with his scarf on, still snuggled up on him.

“You and your tea,” he mutters, still talking more to Louis’ chest than to his face.

“I know, I know.” He feels so fond his brain is fusing.

Harry turns his face up to look at him, a sibylline smile playing on his lips. “Do you feel less stressed, now, sunshine?” he asks, with a hint of irony in his words.

It takes Louis several moments to even understand what Harry is talking about. “Oh, shut up,” is what he says back when he does, pushing him gently on a shoulder, laughter clear in his tone. Harry laughs, too, and Louis loses his breath looking at him, still leaned on him, all trust and comfort, their angles and their shapes perfectly fitting. He can’t believe this.

“We could go to _Kromhouthal_ market now,” Harry adds after a moment of silence, interrupted only by the whistle of the wind. “They have, like, you know the thing with warm wine?”

And Louis bursts out laughing again, okay, just a little, because Harry talks shit _all the time_ and now he’s offering mulled wine now, over anything else, and he's so beautiful Louis doesn't know how to deal with himself, doesn’t understand how all of this really happened, how was it possible: he can't believe he finally saw the light _and_ worked out the courage to kiss him, _and Harry kissed him back_, and now they’re talking about getting wine, like that’s the most normal thing in the world, like his world didn’t just go upside down. And maybe it hasn’t.

This is how you feel when you know it’s right, don’t you? You feel calm.

He's so happy is chest his going to explode.

“What?” Harry asks, but he's smiling too, like he knows everything that passes and passed through Louis' mind. Like he thinks whatever Louis is thinking, too.

“Nothing.” He caresses his cheek again. “I'd love some wine, let's go.”

They untangle out of each other’s arms and start walking back to the door. The cold hitting his chest now feels like a foreign criminal.

Louis doesn't know if he should hold Harry’s hand again, or maybe his elbow or maybe even nothing at all, because they’re exiting their bubble and he has no idea of what is waiting for them on the other side. But Harry is quicker than him, like he always is, and more confident too: he takes Louis’ right hand and slips them into the pocket of Louis’ jacket, holding his hand in there. Louis can't do anything if not smiling at him with his whole soul, the crinkles by his eyes so deep his eyes are almost closed.

He doesn’t even remember what he was fearing, because the other side is waiting for them with its arms open, of course it is.

~*~

He receives Harry’s text seconds before he turns his phone off, ready to go to bed. He’s still tipsy for the wine, the happiness and the kisses, the warmth in his chest pervading every inch of his body.

It’s only a link, with no explanation attached to it. Louis only recognises the _youtube.com_ at the start.

_What's this?_, he asks, already grabbing his glasses with his left hand.

**The song I was humming before.**  
**Goodnight, Lou**

Louis smiles again, already knowing what Harry is talking about, and clicks on the link to fall asleep lulled by Hozier's words.

He's so happy, in fact, he doesn't even notice the missing calls from Liam and Lottie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is [Like Real People Do](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrleydRwWms) by Hozier. Of course it is.  
The swing is a real thing btw, is called is [ A’DAM lookout](https://www.adamlookout.com/) and I swear you too would grow the guts the kiss anybody after doing it  
************************  
The genesis: just for context, I can’t fall asleep on airplanes. It’s not a fear thing, I’m just too goddamn uncomfortable, always. I had a 9 hours flight all by myself this summer, and for the whole time I was completely awake, headache setting in, bored out of my mind. It was completely dark outside, so much that there was no point of reference, anywhere. Sunset starts to creep at the horizon and…… I was so shocked I stared out of the window for what feels like hours. Time stretched out. Never understood how true is that time makes no sense until I was suspended 10km above the ocean, no time zone available, seeing a sunset that marked no day. I never got so clear that the world is a sphere before that day that wasn’t a day, just a flicker in time. The cloud beneath me looked like glacials. We flew across a pale blue sky, no line to separate the horizon. There was no time, no space, nothing made sense: just pure beauty, something so special and so big I still have no idea how I was capable to see it without going insane. Then, when we were told to close the windows to not disturb the other passengers, I opened my note app and just started rambling. I had too many feelings just to remain in silence, just to keep them for myself. I wrote a good 3k words there, about how Louis felt on the swing, the desperation he felt while kissing Harry, tearing up for the new sunshine, uncomfortable like never before.  
I’m still in awe for what I saw. Never going to complain about not being able to sleep ever again.  
************************  
This was nerve-wracking to write. I know this is always an important moment for stories and… I don’t know. Let me know if you liked all these poetry-bullshit (which are how I live day by day btw. I’m sensitive and all of that).
> 
> Tell me what you think of all of this, kudos and comments are really a writer’s greatest gift :)  
************************  
Like any other time: [ my tumblr ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/), [ the fic post ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/post/625001364010024960/amsterdam-with-you), [ ‘awy’ tag on my tumblr](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/tagged/awy), and [ the playlist for the fic ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL5momjAjTuX6twPBNWmdXHrC46ATa8szU)
> 
> Next update should be on the 13th but FINE LINE DROPS THAT DAY, so, uuuuh, the 14th? 15th, maybe? Who knows.


	7. 13th - 14th of December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiii! Just here to tell you that this is so under edited that makes me wonder if it's even edited at all (my brain is fried, forgive me). I'm a good 99% sure I'll come back and fix some things here and there, but not massive or important ones. Either way!! Hope you like this one :)) xxx  
Warnings: children with illnesses, mentions of hospitals

When Louis sees another _1 missed call - Lima_, he has to take an annoyed sigh at himself. Only Liam would manage to call him whilst he was brushing his teeth before going out, or the only second he hasn’t been with his phone glued to his hand in the past twenty-four hours. But also, subtler, slicker, something else creeps up in his chest, something that feels a lot like _guilt_.

Point is, he hasn't thought a lot about his life outside Amsterdam these past few days, he can’t even remember off the top of his head when he has heard properly from his family or his friends. He had called Lottie in the morning, sure, but she just said to hear from Liam: which Louis _tried to_, but he was unavailable all day except three minutes ago, apparently. Go figure.

Louis had just the head to think about his publication, his new projects, and then Harry, of course Harry; how amazing he is, and how they just _fit_, and how they’ve spent every waking second together and-

The thing is: Louis is… happy. He’s just completely, genuinely happy. Can you believe that?

Well, his colleagues can’t.

When he woke up, this morning, the wine was still pushing on his temples and a hazy confusion about what happened the night before clouded his mind. But that didn’t last long, as he soon realised he didn’t dream anything: when he turned on his phone, he already had a _goedemorgen xxx_ by Harry to wait for him.

He had walked into the office with a grin plastered on his face, surprising his colleagues who collectively thought it was a mirage, and then that it was going to last minutes at best, or until he had his first chat with Dael. But, to everybody’s shock, it remained there for the whole day.

It was getting a bit ridiculous, with them trying to figure out what happened or who swapped that pain in the ass they had as a boss with this new version of him, who today has been just smiles and gratuitous compliments. It’s not that they had complainings about it, it’s just that office life is enough boring as it is, and every change, no matter how small it could be, gets grasped with both hands.

Louis didn’t even acknowledge it throughout the day, too busy daydreaming while he stares out of the window or engrossed with some silly conversation with Harry over text to realise the whole office was making up theories about him.

Yeah, he's genuinely happy, and so what?

He can't stop thinking, _dreaming_ about every second he and Harry had spent together after nearly getting pneumonia up in the air.

About how they had walked to the _Kromhouthal_ market after, Harry's hand still in his pocket, something so intimate and pure it seemed wrong the whole world could see it too. But at the same time how proud he had felt for that, walking with his head raised high, sharing little nonsense with him, no more caring about feeling an outsider to the rest of the world: would it matter? He was holding Harry's hand. He had already everything he could have asked for, there in his pocket.

About how he walked in the Christmas market – the _kerstmarkt_, as Harry tried to teach him, and for the first time Louis managed to get it at the first try – not knowing what to expect and still getting his breath taken away. The magical atmosphere created inside a warehouse took him back to lost years, foggy memories of cold winters, hot chocolates and cheek pinches from his grandparents. The fairy lights, the garlands, the fake snow and the little shop everywhere: it was like being launched inside a kid's book illustration, only this was so much better, because along with that there was music in every corner, as well their coveted mulled wine.

He has mixed memories from that on: flashes of them laughing at everything, talking and interrupting each other, unable to have a proper conversation from start to finish, too giddy to just sit down and listen; Harry bursting out entire sentences in Dutch and Louis trying to imitate him, not knowing what he was saying because Harry wouldn’t translate them for him; starting to sing every time they’d recognise a word or a melody in each other’s words, always starting new sentences that went nowhere: they had too many things to share, too many words to sing or laugh about.

Their lips and their cheeks, finally red for the wine and the laughter and not for the wind anymore; the orange and the cinnamon from the mulled wine; the smell of _botercakes _and _oliebollen _around them, cheerful chaos everywhere.

Them kissing again, after drinking wine, and then again, under a lucky mistletoe.

Louis never feeling that dread that had accompanied him for months, never overthinking his actions or words, like the bubble they've fallen into on the rooftop has expanded and now encircled this space, too.

Like there was nothing to fear in any place, because maybe this was the right thing all along.

Them teetering home, slowing and without a care in the world, still too loud for all of those who couldn't see past the line of the horizon. Leaving Harry on the landing of his building, Louis had felt just like that evening of weeks ago, when he accompanied him after the march, when he had the weird feeling that was the end of a very weird first date and he had no idea of how to say goodbye to him.

Oh, but now he knew.

They stopped kissing, slouched on the doorway, just because another man had to enter in. They had laughed until they lost their breath after that, for that and everything else.

“Goodnight,” Louis had murmured, not wanting to leave at all.

“_Goedenacht_,” Harry had replied.

“_Bonne nuit._”

"_Gute nacht._”

“Mmmh, _buenas noches_.”

They had continued like this until they had finished the language they knew, and Louis had gotten home feeling like he was walking on a cloud.

Today’s Louis stares at his phone, weighting the options: he hasn't heard of Liam in a minute, he’s curious about what’s the matter at hand, but he has to get out to get drinks with Harry, too. He doesn't have that much time to spend on the phone, and if he calls Liam he would love to have hours to dedicate just for him. God, how he misses him.

Harry had sent him a link to go to this super posh place, something about a bar with the best cocktails of Europe or something equally ridiculous, and Louis didn't have the heart to tell him that beer is okay for him, most of the time, that he doesn't care about expensive liquors and exotic fruits; it doesn’t matter, because if Harry wants it_, Harry's gonna get it_.

So Louis sends a quick text to Liam telling him:

_Oi lad !!_  
_Managed to call the only moment I didn’t have my phone, ah !_  
_I’m heading out now so I can’t talk_  
_Can’t wait to hear from you_  
_I have so much to tell you_  
_I’ll call you tomorrow x_

The checks get blue instantly, but Liam gives no sign of reply. Well, _he would have if it was anything serious_, Louis thinks, so, reassured that everything is okay, he goes out to see Harry.

~*~

In the emotional and professional tumult Louis’ life has been these last days, he had forgotten _again_ Liam’s call, until his phone starts ringing again. Louis has been busier this last week than the pasts semester altogether and has to get out tonight, too, but it’s still early enough this time that a chat with his best friend won’t make him late.

He _can’t_ be late, not today: he’s meeting with Harry, again, but this time Zayn is going to join them, too, and he _has to_ make a good impression on Zayn. Well yeah, of course they have met already: but this was the first time since Louis made Harry go home in the middle of the night, both yesterday and the day before that, with his scarf securely tied around his neck.

When he saw him, yesterday, with still that on, Louis felt his chest expanding and had to kiss him even before saying _hi_. He liked that scarf, but not enough to ask it back, and now he had discovered he liked it a lot more on Harry. Also, the only time he addressed the matter during the night, saying: _“you still have my scarf,”_ all Harry said back was: _“yes, and what about it?”_ like the world’s biggest diva.

In that moment Harry could have stolen his car and Louis still wouldn’t have minded.

When Louis joked about making a good impression on Zayn, Harry had laughed, careless, telling him to not worry about it: still, Louis could tell that he cared _a lot _about the two of them getting along. And Louis had seen the serious gazes Zayn sent him every time the three of them had spent some time together and he was being too close to Harry, even if all of that was _before_, when Louis was trying to convince himself that nothing was going to happen.

It makes sense, that’s his best friend, and even more than that, that’s his best friend he met while _crying his eyes out_ for his shitty ex, so Louis, among all, had no excuse to not be on his best behaviour.

He plops on his sofa and curls up to one pillow in the same move: he’s as comfortable as he can be, ready to hear from Liam. He has missed him too much, he’s buzzing.

“Payno! What’s up lad, I’ve missed you!” he almost screams, a smile splitting his face.

“Hey, Louis.” Liam’s voice is flat and distant, an echo can be heard after his words: Louis wonders where he could be that it’s so silent.

“How’s everything? Man, you have to update me, I feel like we haven’t talked in ages.” He adjusts himself even better between the pillow, ready to have a heart-to-heart. “Like, no, we straight up haven’t. I have so much to tell you, like, things have been going great here, can you believe? ’Ts been crazy, but-”

“Lou-” Liam tries to interrupt him, but Louis’ too hyped. He’s going to leave the word to him in a second, either way.

“Yeah! I know, I wanna know from you before I tell my stuff!” he concedes, while still moving his pillows and other stuff from the couch. “How are you, I feel like-”

“Louis, Kai’s in the hospital.”

Louis drops the remote he was moving. His chest cave in itself. He waits for what feels like an eternity, ready to hear a _‘just kidding, everything is great’_ that is not going to come.

“… What?” it’s all he can say, chocking on his own voice. _What?_

“He… Oh god, I can’t do this.” Liam starts _crying_. Louis gets punched in the stomach again. “Lou, I, he- he’s been there since yesterday, I don’t know what to do, it’s- he- _Lou_,” Liam is pleading, like he’s asking for a help nobody can give him.

It can’t be true. Louis has still is hand at mid-air, frozen, but when he hears his friend in so much distress, his brain starts to work again: he has to do something for him.

“Li, breathe, okay? Breathe with me. Everything will be fine,” he tries. He breathes deeply a couple of times, untidying the knot in his own throat, until Liam picks up the rhythm and follows him. Once Louis feels like he has calmed down a little, he starts again: “Li, what happened?” it feels like the only sensible thing to ask.

Liam sniffles a couple more times before responding: “He, he banged his head on a toy, I was the one looking after him but I swear it was so quick, I would have never let him-”

“Li, breathe.” Liam’s getting worked up again. “I know, you’re the best dad ever. Babies are just quick and unpredictable, right?” he tries to joke a bit, hoping Liam can hear his smile. He feels better now: a bruise on the head is usually nothing, and Kai, as strong as he is, will get better in a few days. Still scary, of course it is, but nothing to worry too much about.

“I don’t know, I don’t, I- that’s not the point,” Liam keeps stuttering. Louis has never heard him like this. “We bought him to the hospital and- _Lou_,” that tone is here again, like he’s pleading Louis to understand him without him saying what happened, like he doesn’t have the heart to put those words out. Louis remains in silence, a creepy feeling settling in his bones. Liam, miles away, takes a sharp inhale. “We told the doctors about the water bubbles he had near the brain, and they made him do MRI scan just to be sure and-”

“Oh, no. No, no, no-” Louis can feel the dread arise. _Please, not this. Everything but not this._ He doesn’t want to hear it. It’s not true, _it can’t be_.

“Yeah. They’re- they’re back.” Liam’s defeated. He doesn’t even sound like himself.

Louis feels his blood gets drained from his face, his hands, his arms and forming a heavy clump in his stomach. He can’t breathe.

There’s a silence from both, Louis having no idea on how to continue or how to comfort his friend. This was their worst nightmare. _They were told those weren’t going to appear again_. He’s holding back tears, but that won’t last long.

“How… how that even possible?” he whispers, trying to fight back the knot in his throat. Once those words get out, he gets the control back on his voice, and he just bursts out: “Didn’t they get absorbed back? What’s this shit? What the fuck, man, what even-” he stops, realising he’s talking by himself, and his friend is still on the other end of the line, silent, with a kid in the hospital. He doesn’t need this, he doesn’t want Louis’ outrage. Louis should just help him but has no idea _how_. “Liam, I’m… I’m just so, so sorry. How is he? What did they say?”

“He’s… he’s _stable_, he’s fine for now-”

“_Thank god-_”

“But they have to understand why they’re back or… or if something could happen in the future.” Liam chokes back another sob. _Nothing is gonna happen, not now and not ever,_ Louis wants to scream to the Universe, but he can’t know that. They were told Kai was completely out of the woods with that, and now… now they’re back to square one. He takes a deep breath in but feels like he can’t exhale that out. “They are doing all kinds of tests, they just poke him, all day, and he’s so scared and I’m- I can’t do anything for him. I’ve never felt so useless, he’s _my baby_ and I can’t do anything for him,” he repeats, again and again.

“Li, love, you- no, just no, don’t say that,” his heart is breaking. He’s the useless one, he can’t even comfort his friend. He doesn’t even remember how to do this. His hands are shaking so badly he can’t hold the phone properly. “I bet you’ve been great. I told you, you’re the best dad ever. _You are_,” he repeats when he hears Liam’s scoff on the other side. “You’re doing everything that’s in your power, I know you are.”

“It’s just that… I’m- I’m trying, _I am_, but… I mean, I can’t change it, can I? I feel like I should be able to change it. I’m his dad and I can’t even protect him? I feel like this is my fault.”

“Hey, no, none of that,” Louis sits up straighter, all his shakiness forgotten: they’ve had this conversation before, a sobbing Liam on his lap and a desperate Louis trying, without a success, to tell him that this tragedy was nobody’s fault and everything was going to be alright in the end. And it was, for some months. Until _now_. “This is so beyond you, Li. But you know what you’ve done for him? You’ve made him strong, and you gave him so much love. He knows how to fight back because of _you_.”

This is all wrong. He shouldn’t be here to say the same things he has already told Liam months ago. They were told he was fine, he was healthy. _“Nothing more to worry about,” _were those lies? Or are they just incompetents?

“He does that cos he’s the best, not because of me. He’s the one who gave me all this hope. He’s so brave,” he’s crying again, and Louis can do nothing about it. He’s trapped miles away, he can’t make Liam drink some water or rub his back or make him take deep breaths, like he used to do, and now he doesn’t even know how to use his words anymore.

He shouldn’t be here. This is all wrong. He should be back home, a drive away, ready to hop on his car and run to him.

“He’s strong, isn’t he?” Louis smiles through his own tears.

“Yeah, yeah, he is.”

“He beat all the odds, didn’t he? He’s a warrior. I mean, that’s his name, right?” he offers another wobbly smile that Liam won’t see, and thinks how weird life is, how Liam and Meli wanted to name him Kai just because it means _sea_ and they both love it, and they meet and fall in love in a lucky, wonderful summer spent on a beach. And how fitting it still was when just a few weeks after they discovered there was something wrong with his echographia and then found out the same name also meant _warrior_. It was such a small, trivial thing, but it felt like a sign: when they had no idea of what to do, discussing the ethics of bringing a child to this world when already knowing he was going to suffer, something like that felt like a ray of a forgotten hope.

And then, when after some more weeks, they saw the bubbles getting slowly reabsorbed they celebrated like never before. Then Kai was born, and he was declared _healthy_ and his problem _“just something to keep in mind, but nothing to worry about,”_ it was like Fate itself had smiled at them.

Oh, but they couldn’t imagine the future already, could they?

“He’s so strong, Lou,” Liam continues like Louis didn’t say anything. He’s lost in his own thoughts and Louis has no idea how to grasps him back, how to calm him down just a little, how to make him take a deep breath, to the very least. “Never seen someone as strong and as brave as him. I love him so much. I wouldn’t know what- I mean, what if-”

“Hey, _no_,” Louis interrupts him before Liam can vocalise his worst fears. Louis doesn’t have the heart to hear it and has no intention to let Liam feel even worse. “None of that. He’s strong, he’s brave, he’s a fighter,” he says, as forcefully as he can. He believes in this like nothing else. “He will be great, and you know how I know that?” Liam gives no signs he’s listening, still breathing heavy over the other side, so Louis just continues. “Because we all have seen how tough he is. Nothing will ever bring him down. And Li, he has you. He’s so lucky to have you as his dad, you know that, right?

“I… I wouldn’t say that. I feel like I do everything’s wrong.”

Louis throws a pillow on the floor. He wants a pause from this, where he could just scream to the void. This is not fair. How can he make Liam understand that he deserves the whole world, that he has never done something wrong in his life? That something so scary would traumatise _anyone_, especially two twenty-something-years old who weren’t even planning on having a kid?

He has already done so much. How can he not see that?

“Hey, no, none of that. Don’t put yourself down. You’re a great dad, you always have been, and I bet you’ve been even a better one now, I know that Liam, _I know_,” he repeats, loudly, because he knows his friends doesn’t want to listen to him.

“Lou, I- I… no, listen,” Liam’s fretting, sighing, like Louis’ the one who doesn’t understand. “I haven’t told you so many things since you left, I… I don’t know. So many things are changing and… I don’t know anymore.”

Louis stops his fretting. He feels cold all over. “Like what?” There’s more to it?

“Me and Meli, we… we haven’t been our best. We just… argue, all the time. Over the smallest bits. Kai has been weird for a bit by now, but we- I mean, I thought it was just his teething, or the stress, ‘cause we-we’re terrible-”

“Liam, _no_-”

“No, listen to me. I could’ve thought about it, maybe even bringing him to the hospital sooner, but I didn’t want to scare Meli over nothing, and she’s- she’s a mess now. She hasn’t left him for a second. We- haven’t been our best, I was hoping we could get better, I was trying so hard but now with this… I don’t know. I feel like everything slipping out of my fingers.”

Louis remembers the conversation they had a couple of weeks ago, when he was too busy thinking about Harry, a guy he had met days before, to listen to his best friend of a whole life. He was too preoccupied to reply to his texts while they were talking to even recognise how miserable and sad Liam was in that moment. He had said that, loud and clear: they weren’t doing great, and Louis didn’t even ask seriously about it. He’s the one who has got everything wrong.

He owes Liam so many apologies.

He has no idea how to respond to that, he has no idea of what is going on between them. “She’s worried, Li, it’s understan-”

“She always is,” Liam interrupts him, voice firm. “To a point where it doesn’t make any sense, and then we argue about it all the time, and-”

"She had such a difficult pregnancy, Li, and she must have felt just like you, like this was her fault, when of course it’s not,” Louis tries again. “That's scarring," he can't help but remind him, trying to sound as sweet as possible. Like Liam needs a reminder for those hellish months.

“I know! It's not like I could ever forget, can I?!" Liam bursts out. His words echo in the same way in both empty rooms. “But it’s not about that. It’s about how paranoid she has become. She’s obsessed with his health and his safety. I’m so worried about her, all the time. And I know this is not the moment to say this, but I wish she’d stop being so apprehensive with him all the time. It’s not healthy, not for her, not for him. She’s… she’s becoming the ghost of herself.”

"She… she just wants the best for him, bub," Louis tries again.

Liam and Meli have been having all these problems and he didn’t know. He didn’t ask once. The thumping in his chest is getting louder and louder, desperation closing up is throat: he feels like he should stand up and jump, run, do anything that will make him lose all this fibrillation, but his legs are trembling, his hands are, too, and he doesn’t feel in control of any part of his body. Or on any part of his life.

What has he been doing? _What’s he doing here? Why is he here? _He doesn’t remember anymore.

“No, it’s not just that. She wants to keep him in a bubble. She's too protective, and it's corroding her. I don't want her to be this obsessed, it can't be healthy. And I don't want him to grow up like this, either. With our breath on his neck,” Liam stops, huffs, and Louis can see him like he’s few feet in front of him: pacing, rubbing a hand on his face, touching a beard that probably hasn’t been done in a while. “He… he's gonna have _anxiety_ or some shit by the time he's five if we keep going like this. He deserves better than this, than us arguing over the smallest bits. He already has his own troubles, we should just give him support and be on the same side, not making even more mess around him.”

Louis nods, hoping Liam knows he’s listening even when he has no idea how to respond. He kind of feeling like he’s going to throw up, but there’s nothing in his stomach, just his worst nightmares. He sniffs again. A tear rolls down his cheek and hits him on the back of his hand. He doesn’t even know when he started crying.

He has no idea how to reply to all of that. He had no idea things were going this badly, either: how long has been since he called Liam to know about him, instead of just venting about himself and then hang up?

He hates himself.

The intensity of this realisation leaves him breathless for another moment. He _does_, he really does, there’s no point in denying that.

“Bub, she’s scared. You are, too, you just have a different way to get it out, I think.” His voice shakes, his sobs keep building up. He’s useless.

“No, no, it’s not just that,” Liam keeps insisting, like Louis is not getting his point, and he feels even worse, because they’ve always been so close, to the point where they didn’t need words anymore to understand each other: but now he can’t get him, no matter how hard Liam tries, and it’s his all his fault. He can see him shaking his head, standing up, trembling because of his weariness. “We… we just… we’re growing so distant, and I don’t want this. I, I want us to work more than anything in the world. For real, that’s all I want. I want us to be a _family_, not just two lunatics with a kid.”

Louis doesn’t even respond to that, feeling his air getting sucked out of his lungs. He had always thought about them as a perfect family who, despite all the missteps, had still managed to work all their problems out. Hearing this, Louis realises once again that his self-isolation not only had hurt him, but also had completely canceled him from the context he always had.

He doesn’t know anything about Liam anymore.

He is _his best friend, _and that’s no one fault but his.

“Like, for real, this is not the moment to discuss this, but… last week I proposed swim lessons for Kai, like, that's easy right?” Liam is continuing to explain, and Louis can’t keep up with him. He feels like he’s not breathing properly, like air can’t get past his throat and get to his lungs, his sobs tearing him from the inside. He’s getting dizzy. “-but she started screaming about how it's still too risky for him, and _"what if he's too weak"_, and about how we don't know anyone, and okay, that was true, but I could have asked around, but no, she doesn't even want me to. She’s… she became obsessed with his safety. I don’t think he’s gonna break if we swim sometimes. But she always acts like I am the mad one, like I don’t care enough about him, like I’m the one who doesn't understand how fragile he is, while she’s doing all this to protect him.”

_Shit_. The situation looks a lot worse than Louis had imagined. What has he done, in all these months? How _the fuck_ did he manage to isolate himself so much, so far from his loved ones he had started to forget to ask how they were doing?

He confined himself like a hermit, focused on how he wanted a fresh start, and left everything behind, even what have always been the best bits of his life.

He didn’t even find anything here, on the other side.

“Have you tried talking to her parents?" Louis tries again, voice weakened from the crying, after a silence that felt like an eternity. It probably was. He feels helpless. If he can't even comfort his best friend, then what is he good for? He shouldn't be so distant. This isn't the place for him. His place his next to his loved ones.

_‘Have you talked to anyone at all? To your parents, to your sisters, to some of your friends? Or did you repress everything, because you always feel like you should be strong enough for everyone?’_, he wants to ask, too, but he’s so scared.

He doesn’t know what he would like less to hear, if it’s _‘yeah, I got closer to this other random person because you left me and never reply to my calls and my texts, you forgot about me, I know you don’t care about me anymore”_, or _‘no, I’m trying to sustain all these people in my life all by myself, I don’t need anyone, and I don’t care how much it’s corroding me, because I’ll always feel like I have to do this’_.

Louis can’t believe how selfish he has become.

"Yeah. They're worried for her, too,” Liam replies, and his voice sounds so far away, Louis keeps losing his concentration even when his best friend needs him. He’s so selfish, he can only focus on himself and gets tangled up in his own problem even in situations like this. He’s unbelievable. “She's going out with her friends less and she's always... Worried. They're worried, I am, she is too... There's such a nice atmosphere in this house, y'know," he adds, sarcastic.

“I can't wait to be with you three again,” he lets out, this time immediately, with his heart in his hands. That came out directly from his heart. “Not that that would solve anything, of course, but, should… should I come home earlier? Like, tomorrow?” the idea pops on in his mind and suddenly that sounds like the best idea he’s ever had. Yeah, he should go home early, he _has to_, what the fuck is he even doing here? The knot in his throat stills, like he just found the solution to everything. “I could arrange that, no problem,” he continues, hyped, trying to chase this ray of hope. Maybe he’s imagining stuff, but even the rock on his stomach feels lighter. This is the best idea he had in months. “If you need a hand with anything, or someone to bring you stuff to the hospital or I don’t know, make you lunch? I could bring you lunch,” he offers. He could do anything, if Liam asked him to, now.

“I really, really don’t want your lunches, thank you,” Liam scoffs, tired. He doesn’t sound like he’s joking. He just sounds defeated.

“Ok, but do you want me to come? I bet it wouldn’t even be a problem for work, I know my colleagues,” Louis presses again. To be fair he wouldn’t give a fuck even if it was.

He could check the flights as soon as he hangs up. Being home in a matter of hours. _Hours_.

Liam doesn’t sound has convinced, though: “no Lou, don’t… don’t worry about it. We have my parents and Meli’s, too, here, they already brought us some stuff, there’s no need. And I’m at home now, I’m making a bag for Meli. I hope I can convince her to get home, too, and have a shower or a nap somewhere that’s not a chair,” he sighs. “Also, you’ll be home in a week, right? There’s no need, really.”

Louis blinks at his bare wall. He’s trying to process Liam’s words.

He didn’t expect a rejection from Liam, and for sure he didn’t expect it to hurt this much.

“Yeah but, but… but a week is so far,” he stutters, confused. His tears have dried out and now his face hurts. “I wanna see Kai and I wanna see you. I would never have left if he was still in danger, you know that, I told you that, right?” he reminds him. Damn, that was a hell of a conversation they had. “So now I really have no reason to be here a week more if I know he’s in a _hospital_ one hour away from me,” he argues. Why Liam doesn’t want him? This is absurd, he’s just offering some help to _his best friend_.

“Listen, I get that but… it’s _my_ family, okay? And this is not about you, it’s about _him_.”

Louis physically recoils like Liam had slapped him in the face. Air gets sucked out of his lungs. It takes him a while to splutter out a: “I, I didn’t mean-”

“I know, I know that.” What Liam can even know, when Louis doesn’t know what’s all this about? “I just wanna say: I know how to take care of them. When you’ll have your own children, you’ll understand.”

If Liam had punched him in the stomach, it would have hurt less.

“-and I have my parents with me, and they’ll keep an eye on them when I go away to get stuff, like now,” he continues, like he didn’t just wound Louis in the worst way possible. Like he doesn’t know what a sentence like this does to Louis, every time.

Well, he’s too worried about his own kid to treat Louis with gloves. It makes sense. Louis should calm down and stop being so hurt by anything, when it’s clear that he’s not the priority right now.

“We’re- we’re as fine as we can be.”

Louis remains is silence for what feels another eternity, trying to process everything Liam have said. _This is not about you_, that’s what he keeps telling himself, and that’s what removes him from this spiral of thoughts and makes him reply to Liam:

“And, and who’s, who’s taking care of you, in all this? And don’t say you don’t need it,” his voice is completely hollow, it doesn’t feel like it is coming from him but from somewhere behind him.

Liam scoffs. “You’re the one to talk.”

Louis flinches back, surprised. “… What?” _What else?_

“Louis, we… We haven’t had a proper conversation in months and I never know what is up with you, because you- you’re detached all the fucking time, and then you’re so fucking hyped and…” he stops. Louis feels his breath catch in his throat for the anticipation. “You know what, I can’t do this now, I’m too fucking tired.”

Louis sags on the sofa again. He can’t breathe, just like before, but now feel even worse: the air he gets to breathe in can’t get out, and his head feels like it’s going to explode. He had stopped crying though, or at least he thinks that: he’s not sitting there, he’s plummeting backwards in a dark tunnel. Everything is muted except the thumping on his temples.

The fibrillation in his chest hasn’t ended, but he’s so tired now, completely drained by this emotional roller-coaster he’s on: he just wants to get off it.

He’s burning with paranoia. What is that Liam wants to say but he’s too tired to do it? He wants to pester him, he wants to scream _‘what happened since I went away’_, but maybe he’s the only one who knows, and he has to respect his friend, first. There are some priorities in this life, and Liam and Kai, of course Kai, are two of those, right now.

“I’m… I’m, sorry,” he croaks out. His throat hurts. “Things, things have been weird, and, and _tough_, and I don’t know either what is up with me most of the time. I really don’t know, Li,” he tries to take a deep breath, but it gets stuck halfway down. His lungs are compressed and _he can’t breathe_. “But, okay, for real. Please. At any point in this week, you call me and I’m on a plane, okay? I can be there in a matter of hours,” he reminds him again.

“Louis, you need to-” Liam stops and sighs. “I have no idea how to say this.”

“Just… I don’t know, Li. Just spit it out,” he’s getting mad over here.

“You can’t…” he lingers again. “Listen, no, I can’t. I’m too tired, I have too much on my mind, and this is just not the moment to start this other thing. I just can’t, you get that, right?” Louis nods again, as if Liam could see him. “Just… just come back home next Friday. I’ll see you then.” His tone is final, and Louis knows he can’t argue with him any further.

There’s something ugly and dark creeping up in his mind, though. There’s something Liam doesn’t know how to vocalise, that’s obvious, and Louis can’t ask any more about it. He’s not the point, the point is Kai in a hospital bed and his best friend alone in his home, getting ready to keep his son company, in a place where no child should be.

And Louis won’t ask, can’t ask, but his paranoia is not making things easier, here.

“I’ll see you in a week,” he agrees, his words empty. He’s shaking.

They exchange the lasts greets, and Liam hangs up before Louis can say his last thing, just a simple _’give him a cuddle by me’_.

Louis stares at his phone, now silent.

He hasn’t called Liam back, yesterday, _he didn’t even notice the missing calls from two days ago_. Liam was in a hospital while Louis sipped expensive cocktails without a care in the world. He left him alone for sipping sweet liquor he didn’t even care about in the first place. He chose that over his best friend.

He’s the worst friend ever. Why Liam even keeps having faith in him, when Louis doesn’t do anything if not letting him down again and again?

God, he just wants to get back. Maybe face to face things will be simpler, maybe they’ll be more honest, maybe if he tries to works things out they’ll be just like before and the hole he constantly feels in his chest would close, but… but Liam told him that it is better if he comes home in a week, as scheduled. He doesn’t want him there, with him, but why, why, _why_? Did Louis fuck it up _that_ badly?

There’s something else he can’t grasp: maybe they just got too distant and they’re not as friend anymore, maybe all this was a mistake, _fuck_, he knew he should have never come here, why was he so hasty about it, he didn’t even discuss it well with anyone else, he just took his bags and said bye, like that could have mended his broken heart, why-

Kai is in the hospital.

And he still can’t stop thinking about himself.

He is so fucking selfish, why is he even complain about his problems when there’s a baby in a bed that’s not his, surrounded by people he doesn’t know?

There are priorities he should think about, and for sure he’s not one of those. But he can’t do anything, not miles away.

Before this call, it felt like his return home was so near, a blow away, maybe even too near, now that he was not as sad as before, but now a week feels like an eternity when the most precious baby in the world is suffering and his best friend is so near to have a nervous breakdown.

Wow, Louis is really a shitty friend, isn’t he? He hasn’t heard from him in weeks, _he hasn’t called him back yesterday_, he never lets him speak… and while he was doing all of this, Liam’s relationship was deteriorating, he was getting more stressed and desperate every passing day, and what Louis did for him?

Absolutely nothing.

Well, it’s not surprising if now Liam doesn’t want to tell him what is going on in his mind. Maybe he finally realised what a horrible person Louis is. All his conjectures were right at the end, weren’t they? Liam doesn’t trust him anymore, and it’s his fault only.

How could he have thought that _the world keeps going without a care_? It’s just him that got too distant, too _detached _and stopped caring, stopped calling, stopped asking. He stripped himself from every bond he had, and then lamented his loneliness. How could he ignore that all of this is his fault, first and foremost?

Louis gulps again.

He feels like crying but he doesn’t know if he deserves to. That’s such a weird thing to think, isn’t it? How can someone not be worthy of having a good, hearty cry? God, the more time he spends here, isolated, in this weird country, the less he understands about himself, and anyone else too, for that matter.

He has never felt so hopeless before.

His phone rings again and Louis launches himself over it, responding at the first ring.

“Li?!” he almost shouts. His voice is completely scratchy: after spending an eternity sitting there with his gaze lost, sobbing, he had stood up to go take his cigarettes. He doesn’t even want to think about how many he has already smoked.

But why Liam is calling him _again_? Did something new happen? Did Liam change his mind? _Oh, please, let it be that Liam changed his mind_.

There’s just silence on the other side and he’s ready to call out again, but an unexpected voice comes on “… Umh, no. It’s Harry.”

“Oh,” Louis breaths out. He’s disappointed, but also relieved: it means that nothing new has happened, right? “Hi.” He doesn’t want to stay on the phone with him. He just wants to remain here, with the lights turned off, or maybe move to bed, but that’s all. It doesn’t sound healthy, but he doesn’t give a fuck about that, right now. Also, he wants his phone line to be free, so if Liam has to call him he can without problems.

“Who… who’s Li?” Harry asks after another pause. His voice is shaking, a bit accusing.

Louis doesn’t have fucking time for his insecurities. “Liam,” he says without any colour in his tone.

_My ex cheated on me, _rings in his mind when his words are already out. Of course Harry would be anxious about that. He’s such an asshole. He can’t do anything right, to anyone in the world. He should just keep his mouth shut until the end of time.

“Oh. Okay,” he breathes out. There’s another pause, and Louis would love to hang up like, right now. It’s like Harry is waiting, expecting him to say something. “Louis, where are you?” he asks, in the end.

Louis frowns. “In my house,” _where else should I be,_ he wants to add.

“Wha- why-” Harry splutters out. He leaves the question open, without adding anything, but Louis has no fucking energy to give to this conversation right now, so he just waits for Harry to find his words and reformulate the question. He doesn’t give a fuck about this. It’s just washing over him. “Louis,” Harry tries again. “You were meant to meet me and Zayn in this bar forty minutes ago.” His voice is shaking again.

“Oh?” it’s all Louis can say.

He distances the phone from his ear, and the light offends his eyes: Harry’s right, it’s late. He had completely forgotten about that. He looks over the living room: he had turned the lights off in the room, and the orange light from the streetlamp reflects on a triangle on his floor.

How much has passed? Okay, he has been on the phone with Liam for ages, but then he has no idea how much he has spent sitting there, doing nothing, just smoking too much, working up theories in his mind and thinking how much of a failure he is.

“Did… did you really forget?” a tiny voice comes from his phone, and Louis has to blink twice to remember what he was doing and put the phone again against his ear.

“Shit Haz, I’m… I’m so, so sorry.” He’s desperate. He wants to cry for twenty different reasons, and now he has just found the twenty-first one. He can’t do anything right, not even a single thing. Please, _please_, he just needs a break. A hug from his sister, a coffee with his dad, a night out with Oli, a beer and a twelve hours chat with Liam. Anything.

“Did you seriously… I, Louis,” Harry is confused and exasperated, and has every reason to be, but Louis has really nothing more to tell him. “Well, okay, I guess. I mean, no, it’s not okay, but… are you still coming?”

“I… I don’t, I mean-”

“What’s up with you now?” Harry is losing all his patience, and Louis thinks back at all the times he had waited for him to sputter out his words, sentences in the wrong orders, pauses too long, concentration that just keeps vanishing. Is that all gone too, now?

Louis can’t really keep anything good, can he.

“I- I don’t think so, Haz,” he manages to say, in the end. “I’m sorry, I am, really.” His words feel hallow, his chest, too.

“What the f- and you say it like this? Just like this? Couldn’t you text me or call me? I have been waiting for you here, Zayn had, too.” Harry underlines every concept with a hard tone, clearly angry. He has all the rights to be.

_Zayn _is waiting for Louis to show up. Harry cares about Zayn’s opinion more than anything in the world. Shit. What a mess he had just done.

“I’m sorry,” he tries again. He just wants to be left alone and cry. “Something, something came up, I didn’t do it by intention.” He knows he’s being an asshole, that he should be more honest: he always thinks about that but never actually does it. He can feel Harry getting angrier on the other side of the phone. “Wait, wait Harry, okay, I’m sorry. I am. Liam called me, he had an emergency with his family, it’s serious and… I’m sorry, I’m just really not in the mood to go out anymore.”

There’s a pause on both ends.

Louis doesn’t have the patience or the intention to keep this up, he would rather just get yelled at by another person he has let down and go hide under his covers.

It’s weird, but he had completely forgotten about Harry until he called him. This… he can’t deal with this, too, now. He really doesn’t need this now, he already has too much going on in his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, but he’s not saying that just to Harry: he is saying it to Liam, who he has abandoned, to Kai, who’s too young to have been in a hospital so long already, to his family and to his past self, who thought this would have been the turning point of his life _for the better_.

To himself and to Harry again, because he has started something he now can't finish: why did he get himself involved with him? Sure, it was nice. Lovely. But as much as the revelation about the horizon and all that crap may or not may be true, isn't it obvious that this isn't is place? He shouldn't be here? He didn’t need to bang his head so hard on reality to remember where his place is on this earth.

Why has he fooled himself into thinking he could have this?

“Oh,” Harry says, after a long pause. “Is… is he alright? I’m sorry about that.”

“No, I don’t think he is.” Louis swallows a sob before he can be even more pathetic. “It's… it's a mess, really. This whole situation is. And I don’t know what to do. I’ve no idea how to help him.” Harry doesn’t care about all of this, of course he doesn’t, and Louis shouldn’t put this on him, but he’s is not thinking about him at all, he’s lost in his own thoughts.

“Shit, that’s… I don’t know. But what happened?”

Louis opens his mouth but nothing comes out: how would he even explain all of this? Does he even know who Kai is? Does he remember about Liam and Meli and all of that? Could he even get how much Louis loves him, how worried he is?

No, of course he can’t: he doesn’t know anything about this, he doesn’t know anything about him comforting his best friend for months, about how Meli changed in just a few weeks, and apparently getting even worse, about the constant ache in the chests they all had for months.

But hey, apparently Louis doesn’t know shit about that anymore, too.

This time the sob he tries to repress prevail on him, and he can just press a hand on his mouth and try to not cry even more. “I- it's, private stuff,” he stutters out.

He grasps a near pillow with both hands, trying to impress some of his desperation on it. The pillow has a loose string in one of its corners: Louis pulls it, and it hurts his hands. He does it again, engrossed by it, trying to grasp some stability with this gesture, to gain back a connection with the physical world.

“Oh no Lou, don’t, I, do you…” Harry lingers, looking for words. “Do you want me to pass by yours? Bring you something? I could make you dinner, you know, I’m pretty good, I-”

“I just wanna be alone,” he interrupts him. Fuck this, fuck all of this: Harry’s too lovely to him, he doesn’t want to think how genuine he always is. He wants to stay mad at him, because that is easier and he’s a coward. He’s just a coward and it’s easier to think that Harry’s part of the problem, that he can be mad at him, too.

“Oh. Okay.”

“But thank you,” he adds, too late, he’s always too late. He can't do anything right. He already sounded like an asshole. He’s the worst.

“Sure thing, no problem, I’m… you know where to find me, right? If you need anything. I’m sure everything will be alright, Lou.” He’s smiling, Louis can hear that in his tone. He’s being too good for him.

Louis doesn’t deserve anything in the world, for sure not this. He knows that expression, the shy smile full of hope, waiting for Louis to support whatever he has said, like Louis should be the one responsible for that. Harry looks too much up for him, and Louis doesn’t want that responsibility, it’s too much, it’s too soon.

And Louis, right now, doesn’t feel anything related to Harry’s smile. That’s the first time it ever happened. Even when Harry had just run over him with his bike his smile softened him a bit.

In the end, Louis doesn’t respond. He just doesn’t have the energy, and he’s too afraid that if he speaks he’s going to cry even more. He finally gets to pull the string out, so he throws on the floor and starts picking up another corner, desperately searching for something to do with his hands.

They remain in silence, listening to each other’s breathing, until Harry asks again: “Louis, are you… I, are you sure everything is fine?”

Louis frowns again. “I told you. Liam called me,” he repeats, his tone short.

“No, not that, I mean, like… between us? Because, I-”

Louis doesn't hear the rest, too confused by that _between us_.

Between us? There’s a between us? … What has he done? And what is he doing here, in general? He’s wasting time. His time, Harry’s. He should just hang up, he _has to _hang up.

“Between us, _what_? There’s no _between us. _Not everything is about you, you know that, right?” and it’s not fair, of course it’s not, him throwing Harry under the same bus Liam had pushed him under. He has been thinking about that sentence and about everything else for hours now. It’s all that has been on his mind.

But he can’t help but feel angry, desperate: Harry has no idea, how dare him to come to him and ask such stupid questions? How can that be a point to considerate, when there are so many more pressing matters at hand?

Liam doesn’t even want him back home and had refused to tell him why, but Louis knows it’s because he’s terrible, _terrible_, and would be no help at all.

Louis should have never messed with Harry.

_Between us_.

Between us what, exactly? There’s nothing between them. Louis doesn’t care about his third eye or whatever bullshit he has been thinking lately, he just can’t afford to waste time with Harry.

He hears Harry taking a sharp inhale and he knows he’s being terrible, but he’s also right, isn’t it? This is not about him.

“Yeah, I’m starting to get that. Have a good night, I guess.” His tone is biting like Louis had never heard him, and he hangs up on him before Louis can even think what to reply.

Oh, he was _angry_, but Louis feels just relieved, too exhausted to feel anything else. Life, life is too much.

His phone slips out of his hand and crashes on the floor. He doesn't even have the energy to turn to look at it, he doesn’t even know when he had let it go. He doesn't care about his phone, or about how many hours had passed since he talked with Liam, or about how pissed Harry must be with him. He doesn't care about so many things anymore.

Everything in shades of grey.

He remains sitting there, in that pallid yellow light, destroying his pillows with his mind jumping around, feeding the vicious cycle of his damaged imaginations, in a defeating silence.

Completely alone.

Like he always is, like maybe he deserves to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Louis is big sad is my favourite tag for this ngl  
I have a mmmh, not wonderful news about the next updates: I have written almost the whole chapter 8, chapter 9 is a good half down, but I don’t have the next ones. I have 100% clear where the story is going, I have the most important dialogues and scenes already written down, so there’s no chance in hell this is gonna remain a wip (I’d never let that happen, ugh). This is just to say that the updates are gonna be slower than the first 7-8 chapters. Also, they won't be anymore on the precise day of the title (since this one is already late and next one should be tomorrow, and, I'm sorry but is not gonna happen :( this exam season has been A LOT)  
That being said don’t lose your faith in me lol, maybe give me some support? If you wanna write me anything, [ my tumblr ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/) is here, [ the fic post ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/post/625001364010024960/amsterdam-with-you)
> 
> Let me know what you think :) kudos & comments are always hella appreciated!
> 
> See you soon-ish :)) xxxxx


	8. 15th - 17th of December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Just wanted to say, sorry for the wait the delay and everything else, Christmas time and uni and everything else has been a lot, lately. Thank you for the wait and for the comments, you’ve been really lovely :’)  
Hope you’ll like this one (probably not. Okay I’ll shut up, byeee)  
Only warning: a bit of alcohol

Louis has a beer on one hand and no one on his side. This alone should be enough to indicate how bad he's doing.

He raises his eyes to meet the guy who has served him: he's still cleaning the counter, a row of clean glasses arranged in front of him. Hasn't stop scrubbing since Louis stepped in here. He looks around, before getting fixated on his beer again: the pub is basically empty. Not many people drinking beer at 3 pm on a Saturday, apparently.

His neck protests at the movement, and he can't do anything about it, only pressing the spot with his fingers, still not knowing if that makes things worse or not. It probably does. His usual pain at the base of his nape is right now the worst he's ever had: falling asleep on the couch wasn't a smart move, but for sure it wasn't one he had taken knowingly.

He doesn't remember much after Harry had hung the phone on his face: just him staring at the wall, his thoughts bouncing around his brain, suffocating, until they were too loud and scary to keep going. He had fell asleep at some point, intoxicated by the too many cigarettes, and then woken up in the late morning, with the light shining through the window. He had risen up with a start, sure he was late for work, his whole body aching, his breath still heavy.

He had started working on his emails the second he had remembered why the fuck he was on his couch instead that on his bed, in the foolish hope he could somehow distract himself from the night before.

He draws a smiley face on the condensation collected on his pint of beer, trying to cheer up his mood: when it doesn't, he reminds himself, with the patient and the composure only a big brother can master, he should give himself time to adjust to and to accept what he had learnt in the last hours.

He watches as the drops of water get too heavy and slip down the glass, ruining the smile. That’s so ironically fitting. It was too much, it's still too much: it’s reason why he had to get out of those four bare walls, after even the pile of work he had to do couldn’t keep him distracted about the night before.

This, and because in a low moment of desperation he had reached for his scotch, before realising what he was doing and putting it back on its shelf. It had taken all his willpower to do so, but even in a moment like that he still conserved a piece of clear mind to know how drinking alone before he even had lunch would have made him feel in a couple of hours.

That's why he's here now, though, with a new packet of cigs in his pocket, ready to be consumed in that same afternoon; he’s sitting in an Irish pub, still completely alone, drinking down a pint like it's lemonade, listening to some good classic rock and staring at another wall: at least this one is decorated with golden and forest green. But to his surprise, he feels at home here more than he has ever felt since he moved: he should've gone in an Irish pub sooner, at least the accent of the guy who served him was familiar to his ears.

All of this still can't distract himself from the night before. There's too much on his mind: there's Kai in a hospital bed, his best friend not wanting him near him, Meli who's maybe at her lowest, his family who he hasn't call in God knows how long, and Harry. Still Harry, of course.

When he had checked his phone, this morning, hoping to find anything from Liam, he had seen the texts Harry had sent him before calling him: they were so lovely, asking him where he was with too many stars and flowers emoji; then escalating, more and more pissed, until the last one, a cold _“so that’s it? You can’t even text me back?”_. His last access was today at four in the morning.

God, Harry. What has he done.

There's this urgency, too. To just call someone and cry on the phone with them, or even in person, could you imagine that? Louis is full to the brim with despair, he just wants support, just a bit of love, of someone who could comfort him, just for a second, just enough for him to collect his thoughts and realise what he has to do next. He has never felt selfish like this before.

There's too much on his mind, his hands haven't stopped shaking in all these hours, he just found ways to distract himself: but now, alone, in front of this beer, he doesn't have anything else up on his sleeve to do so. The goal of getting here wasn't to get drunk, it was to change his surroundings enough to let some new ideas in: but these aren’t coming and his beer is nearly over.

He wants to call Liam again, to understand what really happened, but he is not going to: his friend clearly has already too much on his head, he has said that explicitly. Maybe he should call Lottie, or Fizzy, to ask them how they've been doing and if they have some insight on Liam, but... But that's part of the problem, too. That's what Louis has been doing for months, hasn't he? Calling people, vent, hang up. That's must be part of why Liam is angry with him, or disappointed, Louis can't even tell, because his friend had a lot more on his head to lose time with him. And that's fair, of course it is.

And for the in _person_ part... The only person Louis has talked to face to face, about something that wasn't work in these last months has been Harry. But after the call they had yesterday, Louis doubts he would like to listen to him, at all. He should apologise to him as well now, Christ, but he has no idea what to tell him, because after _“I’m sorry”_ he will have to say _“I can’t do this and I should never have left, my place is there,”_ and Louis is not ready to do that.

What’s that? Cowdray? Is it because he’s not sure, because he doesn’t know how, bec-

“…Sir?”

A voice interrupts his streams of consciousness, and thank god for that. Louis blinks, surprised, and raises his head as quickly as he can to the source of the sound: the same guy who has served him before is in front of him, hands on his hips, leaning a bit towards him. Louis suspects that _sir_ wasn’t the first one this guy had said.

“… Yes?” he croaks out.

“Sir, do you want another one?” the guy points at his empty glass with his eyebrows pulled up; a lock of brown hair is casting a shadow on his face. His hands are red, probably for all that scrubbing and hot water he must have used.

“Oh.” Louis blinks again, looking back at his glass. He shouldn’t drink again, he already feels woozy and far more emotional than when he got in; also, getting drunk wasn’t the purpose of today’s trip. But then again, he doesn’t give a fuck about finding purposes right now. “Yeah, sure.” He passes the glass to the other man. “Thank you,” he remembers to add before he turns away.

Without his beer in front of him, Louis drifts away again, looking at another lonely man sitting in the opposite corner from him: at least he was smart enough to sit near a window and not remain at the counter like Louis did. He wonders if that's how he will end up like, too: old, sad, drinking alone. He immediately feels a dick for that. He’s _already_ like that, to be honest, and maybe he should try to be a good person and go talk to him or something like that, instead of wondering how his life is from afar.

“... Sir?”

Louis bolts his head to the guy again, and his neck is quick to remind him who’s in charge between them. It’s just as Liam said: _he’s always so fucking detached. _Louis would do anything to gain his attention span back. The man places gently the pint in front of him with a half-smile: Louis suspects he’s finding all of this pretty funny.

“Oh, sorry. No, I mean, thank you,” he sighs. Since when speaking is so difficult? “I'm just... Lost in thought, you know?” he says, offering a weak smile and a half-apology. “And please, don't call me sir, we’re the same age,” he adds, when he sees the barman grinning back at him. At least he is not coming across like a total weirdo.

The guy shrugs like he couldn’t care less, leaning on the bottle shelf with hands now in his pockets, like he’s hanging out more than at work. “Whatever you want, mate. And just so you know, I can tell. You've been staring at that wall for half an hour.” He points at it with a jerk of the head, his blue eyes glinting a bit in the warm light.

"Ah, told ya," Louis sighs, taking a sip of the beer. It's ice cold just like how he likes it. "Went outside to clear my head, but it's not really working." There's something about this guy that makes him comfortable: maybe it's his open smile and how chill he seems in general, or more probably it's the familiar accent. He speaks with such a thick Irish accent Louis suspects he's faking it.

“Lot to think about?” the guy asks, turning to sort the whiskey bottle behind him. They’re already aligned, and Louis suspects that he’s just bored out of his mind and trying desperately to find something to do.

“Man, ‘ts too much,” Louis sighs, drinking again. His head is spinning, gently, and he finds it more calming than nauseating, at least for now. “Don’t even know why I thought the beer could help, I’m as lost as before. This is such a stereotype,” he mutters to himself. The lonely guy drinking by himself for comfort? Pinnacle of originality, for real.

“Oi, thank God for stereotypes,” the other exclaims, surprising Louis. He stops his rearranging and turns fully to him again. “You know how long it took to find this job? One afternoon,” he adds, giving Louis no time to wonder.

“… Yeah?”

“Sure thing, ‘twas so easy. Just went around Irish pubs and had a chat with my best accent. Next day nearly all of them called me back. Just took the one with the best hours and pay and rolled with it,” he shrugs like it’s nothing, but a cheeky smile blooms on his face.

Louis snorts: this guy is so _chill, _he can image that way too easily.

“I didn't even know a word of Dutch at the beginning,” he continues. “I mean, I know some now, but it’s still impossible for me to find a job in my actual field. But working in an Irish pub? Never had anything so easily.”

Louis props his elbows back on the counter. “What is your field?” He asks, curious to know which passions a guy like this could have. He’s not going to say this to him, but for what he has seen in this five minute conversation, working in this pub seems tailored appositely for him.

The other sighs like he’s pained, a real frown twisting his eyebrows. “I'm an interior designer-”

“Oh! But that's so cool!” Louis interrupts him, unable to shut up. To be honest he doesn’t know anything about that, apart from his hours-long-sessions with _The Sims _when he was fourteen, but the bartender grins back at him with the double the energy now, so he knows he did the right thing.

“Yeah!” the guy replies with a genuine smile on, seeming glad Louis reacted so lively to it. “It is, it’s such a cool job, especially if you like neat stuff, like me. I mean,” he adds, gesturing the shelves with the aligned bottles, divided per category. “And this country is so advanced in that, like Northern Europe in general, so much more than Ireland. I’ve met so many designers just going to conventions, I’ve seen such cool stuff… But I still haven't found a single position to do that.”

“That must be a brutal line,” Louis comments, empathetic, thinking about some conversations he had with Luuk months ago. _Wait, no, he’s a graphic designer, not a- oh whatever. _He drives the thought away and continues, sure that every creative job shares the same difficulties: “loads of creativity and work to do but not enough decent demand.”

“Yeah, _that_,” the guy points at him. “Exactly, that’s the problem.”

“So… you came here to do that, yeah?” Louis asks, eyeing him above the glass’ rim.

“More or less, yeah,” he runs his hand through his hair, pushing it back. “Needed a break from my routine, also. My town, I'd say.”

And doesn’t _that_ sound familiar. “Like...?” Louis presses, curious to know how much he and this random guy could have in common.

The other squints his eyes, looking past Louis, as if he’s weighing his answers. “Buy me a beer and maybe one day I'll tell you,” he ends up saying, shrugging.

Louis nods along. “Yeah, yeah, fair enough. Cheers, mate,” he says, lifting his beer to him.

“And to you,” he replies, lifting an empty hand towards Louis. “Hey, by the way, what’ya got on your mind?” he leans back on the bottle shelf. Maybe he had figured out that Louis can distract him better than his rearranging. “If you want to vent, I'm here,” he adds, gesturing himself, like it’s nothing, like Louis wasn’t praying for exactly that just some minutes ago: Louis has to blink to convince himself that's real.

Louis drinks again, just at the thought of how much he has on his mind. “It’s… it’s not interesting stuff,” he tries, at least to not show how desperate he feels. “Also, if I start, I'm not gonna stop any time soon,” he warns him. Maybe it’s the beer and a half he had, but he’s ready to attach this innocent man with his life problems.

The other looks around: the pub is as tranquil as before, the scattered costumers still drinking their pints and chatting to their friends. “I've nothing to do,” he says, once he finished his inspection. “And ‘ve already cleaned everything,” he adds, pointing the shining counter with his head. “I mean, hey, if you wanna, I'm ready. I mean, listening to drunk men's problems is my job as much as giving them alcohol, at this point,” Louis snorts and the bartender loosen up even more. “It’s a slow hour and I've got nothing to do, c’mon, entertain me.”

“With my problems? Sure thing.” Louis opens his mouth, waiting for an avalanche of words to succeed, but nothing happens, and he remains there, like a fool. “Wait,” he tried to reorganise his thoughts. There’s a mess in his head. “I don't know where to start for real.”

“From the beginning?” the other is already grinning.

“That's so helpful, cheers man,” Louis says, throwing a hand up.

Louis gives himself a real moment to think: he doesn’t want to about Liam and Kai, he knows that for sure. It feels too scary, too personal, too real, and, at the same time, he knows it’s not his thing to share. _It’s not about you _still rings in his ears, vicious, filled with a malice Louis knows Liam didn’t pronounce. He has thought about that so many times, with all that added hatred, he doesn’t remember how Liam said that in the first place, anymore. That scares him, how he modified a memory because of his paranoia and has no recollection of the original one.

He doesn’t know where to start, but he knows all of his problems sprout from the same origin: this stupid, ugly, gloomy city.

Louis sighs, wondering how to even put all of that into words. “Ok, the point is that… I don’t know why the fuck I’m here,” he mutters, sincere, trying to make another smiley face in the condense.

The guy bubbles up a laugh, a _loud_ one, and Louis wasn’t expecting that at all: he raises his head and backs up just a little, and, to his own surprise, he finds himself smiling back at him. It’s just that he looks like he found that genuinely funny and not like he’s making fun of him; his laugh is so open and bright and Louis can’t get annoyed over something like this.

“Aw, man, that’s a tough one,” the other says, the laughter still clear in his tone. “Maybe start a little before that? Like, _here_ where? In my pub?”

Louis rolls his eyes, aware of how foggy he must appear. “No man, here in Amsterdam, when all the people I care for are at home in England,” _is that even true anymore? _He wonders, a second after. His head hurts, just a tiny bit, and everything is too fuzzy to be analysed and understood. He’s so used to repeat this sentence over and over again, he stopped thinking about it.

How can he still believe and say there’s no one he cares for in Amsterdam, when it’s clear that it’s not true? Not anymore, at least.

The guy shuts up and moves closer, placing his hands on the counter, interested.

“I… I just don’t know how worthy it is, if it is at all, to stay here, when I feel like my whole life is still all there, you know?” well, this is completely true, at least. He wipes off the condense off the glass again: maybe he’s being too polite, but he stopped drinking now, as he feels it would be weird for him to drink while the other guy watches him _and _listening to him rambling.

He nods, like he’s weighting what Louis told him. “Yeah, I get you. I mean, I’m in a similar situation, I guess. You have no opportunities to go back?”

“Yeah- I mean, yeah, but I've-” he keeps tripping over his words, but it’s so complicated to explain the whole situation, especially with everything that happened the night before. “I don't know, a lot of things have happened recently, and maybe I've fucked up stuff with a friend there,” he ends up saying. He fakes a cough, to give himself a moment to breath: every time he thinks back at what Liam told him, he wants to curl up on his bed and just hide there. Every time he remembers what he did to him, he wants to run away for the guilt. He dries his hands off the condense with a napkin and tries to continue: “and also…” he collects his thoughts. The guy’s still there, listening to him, and Louis is going to take advantage of his boredom and just _vent_ like he intended to, because he knows too well what else is eating him up right now. “Also, there’s this guy here, okay?”

“Ooooh,” the guy _claps_. He looks positively delighted. Louis wonders how bored he must be to react like this. “We have some juicy bits here!”

His positive attitude is infectious _and _entertaining to watch, and Louis manages to grin again.

“Yeah man, exactly, I mean-” he stops. “Hey, wait, what’s your name? I’ve been calling you _man_ like four times by now.”

“It’s Niall, and don’t get distracted,” Niall replies in a second.

“Woah, jeez, okay,” Louis raises his hands up in surrender. “I’m Louis, by the way.” Niall gestures him to continue, but Louis needs a sip of his beer to keep going.

"So, the short version of that is...” well, the story _is _short. It’s been two days, not much happened. But to get a grasp of all his doubts, _oh boy_. That will take longer. He leans on the back of his chair, gesticulating with his hands. “So, I kissed this guy, okay? And maybe I shouldn't have, and now I'm overthinking and re-thinking everything, and I think I should tell him that we aren't gonna work, but at the same time I can't really know that, can I? And the point’s not even _if we’re gonna work_, it’s more like _I shouldn’t get involved_.” Louis sighs again: saying this out loud didn’t make it clearer for him, just made it _realer_. _Scarier_. The words he’s saying aren’t coming out from his mouth, but directly from his chest. “And I should have said this to him before anything had happened, but I was too caught up in the moment to stop and say ‘_hey, I have other _priorities’, so maybe I’ve already made a mess? And I don't know if I actually wanna say this to him, because I do _like_ him, and I'm weighing the pros and cons of everything and I have no idea if I should say anything at all, and if I should, then _how_, or maybe I should ignore the situation and hoping it'll magically fix itself,” he ends, throwing his hands in the air.

“Okay, well… last option is bullshit,” Niall promptly says, hand on his hip and serious look on his face, like he’s considering everything Louis babbled to him.

“Thanks man, I appreciate the honesty.” Louis moves closer to the counter and drinks again. Fuck his politeness.

“You’re welcome mate, you look like you need it,” Niall replies, chill as before, scratching his beard, gaze lost like he’s seriously weighting Louis’ problems.

“Oh no, I do, for real,” Louis admits instantly. “And… also, I don't even know what the _fix_ could be. I don't think there's, like, an option, where both get what they want and don't resent the other, you know?” he shudders just at the thought. He can’t stomach Harry hating him, too: he already had a row with his best friend. But what if Harry already does, after what Louis told him yesterday? He would have every right, you know? He was already so pissed Louis stood him up, and he already had his fair share with awful men, and maybe Louis is just going to end up in that same category. Louis still doesn’t know anything about that. He has no idea of how much he had hurt him yesterday.

What a mess.

“Mmmh, what are these options? And the pros and cons?” Niall wonders, serious. “’Cause like, you said you want to talk to him, and that you like him-”

“I do like him,” Louis interrupts him. He shouldn’t, but he does, and doesn’t know what to do with that. “Maybe too much, considering how little we've been knowing each other,” he mutters after, too honest for his liking. But that’s the truth, and that’s the problem. “I like him too fucking much, what am I supposed to do with that?”

“What do you mean, _what are you supposed to do_, mate?” Niall is frowning, and Louis can’t explain himself. That could be the summary of these past months. “You’re supposed to go with it. Also, for the time thing: that doesn't mean anything. If you like him, you just do.” Niall comments, completely genuine. Louis rolls his eyes at that, just the tiniest little bit. “But… what's the real problem here? Because for now there’s none, or, I mean, I don't see one. Is he down for you too?”

Louis puffs. Is Harry down for him? For the little he has seen, Harry would follow him blindly anywhere. Harry who took his hand and followed him on that roof, and, at the same time, Harry who still hasn’t told him the complete truth about his nightmares. “You know what, I think he has it worse than me. I mean-”

“So what?” Niall’s at peak confusion, now. Louis can’t blame him.

“It’s- it’s just that… I can't live here. I can't,” he repeats, to underline the concept, hoping Niall will understand how important this is for him.

But Niall just frowns some more, like he’s not sure he had heard well, but before he can express his doubts a couple enters in the pub, and he has to leave Louis without an answer, their conversation halved.

Left alone with his second pint already halfway down, Louis re-thinks about the little he has said until now: he gets that, from Niall’s prospective, the problem doesn’t exist. If they like each other, why create a problem when there’s none?

But there’s so much more than that, and Louis has no idea how to make this puzzle work: too many pieces don’t fit each other, but as the same time, he feels like he and Harry, the two main ones, could fit perfectly if given the chance.

Maybe, in another moment of their life, this could have been a fairy tale.

“Where were we?” Niall nearly shouts at him, nearly giving Louis a jump scare, once he has finished making his order. “That you and this guy- what’s his name, by the way?”

“Harry.”

“You and _Harry_, okay, lovely, can’t be together ‘cause you don’t wanna live here? That was it?”

“I mean… more or less, yeah, but it’s more about-”

“But you both like each other?” Niall stresses.

“I mean… yeah. I’d say we do, too much, even, I like him too much and-”

“Then why don’t you just fuck?” Niall interrupts him, genuine distress over his face.

Louis snorts and feels about to cry. He thinks how Liam had said the exact same thing to him, a couple of weeks before. They’re right, of course they are. Couldn’t they just fuck and stop being so paranoid about a future that doesn’t exist yet.

“Because… ugh,” Louis puffs. How do you even explain all of that? “Because I’m an eternal romantic and-”

“Boring-” Niall interrupts him while rolling his eyes.

“What now, like don’t _I_ know that?” Louis bites back. “But I’m getting old, too, and I want a serious relationship, you know? And a family. And I can’t have a family so distant from _my _family.” Who knew pubs could hold therapy appointments?

“Okay, if you say so.” Niall shrugs and doesn’t look convinced _at all_. “Okay, but then why can’t you just go with the flow or whatever? Like, what if all this building up leads to nothing, what if,” out of nothing, Niall starts laughing by himself, like whatever he’s thinking it’s too hilarious to say. Louis just stares at him. _What_. “Like, what if he- you-” he keeps giggling, and Louis, at the peak of his maturity, throws a napkin at him. “What if you discover he likes _pineapple on pizza_ or some other bullshit,” he finally giggles it out. Louis has to share a laugh with him, at least for how entertained Niall is by himself. “And then you’ll break up with him and it’ll be over and you’ve wasted all this time worrying about nothing?”

“He already eats avocado on toast mate, there’s no lower point than that,” Louis sighs, the memory of Harry trying to explain to him how _delicious _that greasy lump of wet grass was still fresh in his mind. It was raining outside, like always, and he had his hair fuzzy with humidity, his curls all over the places but somehow his highlighter was still intact. Louis remembers how he couldn’t stop admiring him, trying to respond to his banter but more than that just wondering how he had gotten so lucky to have such an amazing creature sitting on his lap and talking bullshit.

“Ew, what?” Niall makes a grimace. Louis focuses back on him: apparently, he and Niall share his aversion for avocado. Good, good. “Okay, but about… _that_, the point is: does that bother you enough to never speak to him again?”

“Well, no.” Niall raises his eyebrows, like to say _so what dude_. “But it’s because the point’s not all of this! Told ya, I want a serious thing, not a fling or whatever, and I don’t want to tie myself here. I want to go back home and stay there.”

“Okay.” Niall crosses his arms, serious once again. “And, is _this_ enough to never speak to him again?”

Louis gulps. Could he just stop speaking to Harry? Saying seriously to him, _“It’s over”_? He has thought about it, sure, but doing it for real? He doesn’t want to lose him, but at the same time, he can’t lose everything else just for him. He has seen what just a few months distant from his loved ones have done to his relationship and his happiness in general.

“… I- I don’t know,” Louis stutters out.

Niall sighs, uncrossing his arms. “Mate,” he starts, biting his bottom lip. “If he’s as whipped as you said… you owe him to be honest and tell him… _all_ this.”

“I- I… I mean, I know. But I may have already fucked things up with him yesterday, and…” Louis lingers with his words, having no idea where to finish.

“Okay, so what? He’s as an adult as you are. So, be honest,” Niall repeats, serious as before, making a gesture with his hand like he’s saying _‘go now, get out of this pub now and go talk to him’_.

“Yeah, I should.” Louis drinks again. His beer his almost finished, but he won’t ask for a third one. “I… It’s just, I care about him, you know? A lot more than I intended to. I really don't wanna hurt him,” he confides, once he put his glass back on the counter. Sweet, soft Harry with dark circles under his eyes, always ready to share a laugh, to be loud and be the centre of the attention; and then, the same person, the same Harry, but scared to the point of not being able to sleep, second-guessing truths, trusting people way too easily.

“You still have to treat him like an adult,” Niall repeats, gentler this time. Louis doesn’t know how to explain how worried he is to make a mess upon him, too, but it seems like this guy had understood his uncertainties.

“I know, I know, but... It's...” he doesn’t know anything either, that’s the point. He had too much on his mind to try and decipher Harry’s moods, the words he won’t share, and the result is that now he has something so much bigger and scarier in his hands, and no idea how to present it to him. “There are things that I don't know,” he says, in the end. “I don't think that the world, or like, _people_ have been the kindest to him.”

Niall makes a grimace, one hand on his hip and the other resting on the counter. He’s staring at Louis’ half-empty glass, too, like both are trying to interpret the swirls in Louis’ beer as druids in ancient civilisations used to do.

“Okay, but try to see this in his point of view,” Niall continues, when the swirls talk back to him. “Isn’t ignoring the problem gonna make everything even worse? He should know where you stand with him.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I just... Don’t wanna upset him, you know what I mean? Don’t wanna be a dick to him.”

“You wanna be on his good side either way,” Niall supplies, helpful has he’s always been in this conversation, a knowingly, melancholic look in his eyes. Louis makes a note to himself to buy him that beer soon, and exchange the favour of listening to him. He looks like he would have a lot to say as well.

Louis nods before speaking. “... Yeah. I- I don't know, I think I saw a glimpse, maybe even less than that, but... I don’t know, don't wanna, I _can’t_ cause more of that. I just-” _I feel like I destroy everything I touch_, he wants to say, but that too much for an afternoon thought with a stranger, even if it’s one as nice as this one._ I went away, to try to mend myself, but instead I hurt everyone I love. And now is gonna happen again_, the vicious thoughts continue, and he can’t do anything but listen to those.

“Nothing,” he says, after that pause. He’s detached. Liam was right. “Yeah, you’re right, I'll tell him,” he ends, because all in all, he owes Harry this. Niall is right: Harry is an adult as much as him, and it can go in so many ways that Louis can't even think of, but he has to give him the possibility to choose for himself, that’s the bare minimum. He can't fake that everything is fine and then go home and try to remain there.

Maybe he's a coward, but he's not cruel.

“Okay, listen.” Niall puts back both of his hands on the counter, making Louis raise his head again to look at him. He’s fuel with a new energy, apparently on a mission to give Louis a bit of that. “You may end up hurting him in any case. Both of you may. But you can't just hope that an answer for this is gonna descend to you from heaven, or whatever, because that is not gonna happen. And, you don't have to be a dick! Just… tell him this. Tell him what you said to me.”

“That I like him, but I have other priorities.” Louis repeats, gaze lost somewhere behind Niall. That’s what he has been telling himself, but the prospect of telling Harry petrifies him. He doesn’t want to hurt him, he doesn’t want to distance himself from him. He wishes there was a way to have both.

“Yeah,” Niall encourages him again. “If that's how you feel, you should tell him just that. He deserves to know where you stand with him,” he repeats.

Louis nods to himself another couple of times. The pub’s door opens once again, but this time a loud group of friends enters in, and Niall has to leave Louis’ spot in the corner without even say _bye._ Louis looks briefly at him, at how he easily jokes with them, mixing some Dutch with his strong Irish accent, laughing heartily at something Louis still doesn’t understand. It’s been months, and he has lost all his human interaction abilities, while gaining absolutely nothing of the Dutch language.

He remains there, lulled by the growing noises of the pub and the rock music in the background, chatting here and there with Niall when he’s not covered in orders, until the pub gets completely full and another bartender joins Niall behind the counter.

A couple sits next to him: the blonde girl keeps flicking her hair behind her shoulder, and her boyfriend puts a lock behind her ear, every time without a fail. It looks like a ritual they’re attending to, a mating dance where they’re tiptoeing around each other but still knowing the other is completely down for them.

Louis doesn’t understand anything of what they’re saying, but he recognise their laughs, their happiness, their intimacy. He wants to hate them to envy them, but he can’t: the only thing he can do is finishing his beer and text Harry, just a quick_ I’m really sorry for cancelling on you yesterday. Do you think we can meet soon? I have to talk to you x._

That last _x _was added in the futile hope the rest of the message was going to be perceived as less harsh; but honestly, Louis just hopes it doesn’t come across as mocking.

The confusion in the pub grows more and more, and Louis keeps himself anchored to reality just through someone else’s love. He wants that, too, he misses it too much, it’s unbearable, it’s maddening.

While waiting for a response from Harry that is not going to come in the next few hours, he realises how he can’t distinguish anymore how much he wants all of that, from how much he wants that _with Harry_. Maybe it’s too late to divide them, to set them aside in different categories, to ever think they could be distinguished again, because maybe Louis is too far gone, and there’s no remedy to get back, to not want Harry anymore.

Maybe there is no way he can’t picture his future without Harry anymore.

He couldn’t stop those feeling even if he tried. Harry is the only constant is his life, as in now, and he’s the only good thing that has happened to him since he moved here, no wait, _screw that_, he’s the only good thing that has happened in his life since he broke up with David. The first real, important bond he managed to tie after he had his heart completely shattered. And all of this _means _something, he can’t lie to himself into believing it doesn’t.

“Lemme know how it goes,” it's the last thing Niall says, or better, _shouts_ to him, when Louis gets up from his seat and start wrapping himself with his warm clothes.

Louis nods, a bit hinder by his scarf, thanks him one last time and gets out.

He finally knows what to say, and he’s going to talk to Harry.

~*~

Harry’s nails aren’t painted with any colours. Weirdly enough, that’s the first thing Louis noticed: he has never seen his hands so bare before.

Harry had replied, hours and hours and _days _later, with an equally stone cold **sure. I have to talk to you too**, which made Louis grow an uncertainty in his chest that wasn’t there before. So here he was, with an unshakable sense of urgency vibrating in his hands, sitting in front of a tired Harry who kissed him on the corner of the mouth to greet him.

Harry had some impressive dark circles that not even his concealer could mask completely: that was the second thing Louis had seen, and he looked distressed in general. There was something bouncy in all his movements, like he had no idea how to approach Louis, like he had no idea how to deal with him. He kept frowning, looking down or outside the window, as if he was running after different thoughts and memories and didn’t know which one to follow.

Harry is tired, exhausted, and it goes beyond his dark circles and bare nails: he keeps rubbing his eyes, twitching here and there, losing his attention on small things, like the few sugar grains scattered on the table that sits between them, or the noisy group of friends chatting a few metres from them.

Louis is tired, too, of course he is. It’s Monday afternoon and he had spent what there was left of his weekend trying to call various members of his family or his friends, in a desperate attempt to fill the void he was feeling inside: but, maybe because it’s exams season, maybe it’s the Christmas-present-anxiety in the air, he managed to accomplish a tenth of what he had programmed, which left him feeling emptier than before.

After that, he had to go back to work, that morning, to a horde of co-workers who weren’t surprised to see him back to be an asshole as usual. Friday he will be at home, and it will be the last time he will have to see them before 2018: but it’s going to be the same with Harry, too, and he has no idea of how to approach _that_. Not now, not anymore, at least.

He had barely any sleep these past three days, and is wondering, now, how much and in which ways these days have been similar for them, both in their houses, away from each other, but still sharing, somehow, a similar anguish. An obvious difference between them is that Louis is dressed like he had no intention to leave the house, old sweater and even older sneakers, too tired to even bother with his hair. His feet are freezing in his stupid shoes _not made for the winter_, and even after all these years he can still his mum’s voice saying: _“when will you become an adult and buy shoes not made of fabric? You’re freezing and for what?”; _she will always be the one in the right, between the two of them.

Harry, on the other hand, is dressed up, as to counterpart his drained look with a good outfit. On his several layers of good quality fabric, his scarf stands out like a punch in the eye: it’s his own, not Louis’.

He ponders how many other differences there could be, between them, that he can’t see: how Harry had spent these few days, what he had thought of him, what he and Zayn had said when Louis ghosted them like that, with no explanation.

Louis has no idea how to tell him that if he dressed up like that for him, he would have no reason to do so, that he could be and look as tired and as casual as he pleased and Louis would still _know_ he was the luckiest man on the planet, even if one who didn’t know what to do with his luck.

But he has no idea if that’s for him, does he? So, when he had seen him, he had offered just a smile and no commentary.

Louis had started talking after that, with a _sorry _and continued about what an _arse move it was to have cancelled on you like that_, but Harry still looked impatient, like he didn’t care at all about any of the words coming out of Louis’ mouth, as to spur him into saying what he wants to hear. Point is, Louis has no idea what _that_ could be, and even if he does, he’s a firm believer that important matters need an introduction. So, he keeps on with the speech he had half prepared, and Harry

keeps not listening to him, not completely: the big pauses and erratic explanations Louis was making only confirmed that.

“… you know I’m super stressed, and yeah, that’s not an excuse, but then Liam called, and I took it out on you, and I didn’t use the right words-”

“So the problem is the words,” Harry comments, observing the swirl in his coffee. He’s still half listening, half minding his own business, but now he has interrupted him out of boredom, nearly, or maybe just plain impatience. He rolls the wrinkly paper of the sugar packet between his fingers. “You meant what you said. That there’s nothing between us.” His tone his pointed and accusing, but there’s no rage or indignation in the flection of his tone: just tiredness, really.

Louis can perfectly see how behind this _blasé _composure Harry is keeping on, how nervous and on edge he is. _I have to talk to you _texts rarely bring something positive with them, and he’s going in circles around something he doesn’t want to say and Harry doesn’t want to hear. This could sound so familiar, to Louis’ ears, but he didn’t put into consideration how straightforward Harry is.

“No, no, I didn’t, and I don’t,” he rushes to say. Above anything else, Harry should know where Louis stands with him, and for certain it’s not _there_. “I didn’t mean that, it just came out of frustration and out of…” Louis lingers a second, wondering what world could encapsulate what he was feeling when Liam called him: a mix of desperation and anger and despair and misery, anxiety for the future and regrets for the past.

His moment of talking gets lost, though, to Harry’s restlessness.

“Okay. Listen.” Harry gets closer to Louis, putting his cup down and placing elbows on the table, exhaling a deep breath, like he’s wishing his jitters could go away as easily as the air through his nostrils. “What is the problem? Why are we here?”

That’s it, that is Harry: he’s back from all those doubts that were crowding his mind and seems to have chosen one line of thought to follow for this conversation. Their faces are closer now, and Louis can admire how pale and transparent everything about him is. He’s so, so beautiful, painfully so, and the violet that blooms under his eyes just gives him another dimension, another nuance of realness. The nightmare he had crosses Louis’ mind once again, and Louis is left to wonder how restless these last nights could have been for him: not that he could ask now, not that he even knows what the entirety of that one was about.

Louis gets more comfortable on his seat, too, his speeches out of the window: he just has to be honest, like Niall said, like Harry is always asking him to be.

“I'm telling you,” he starts again, getting closer to Harry, too. “This last, like, week and a half have been shit at work, and now with Liam and everything else, I… I don't know what to do.”

“No, that’s- that’s not just it,” Harry interjects, frowning. “There's something else. More specific. And you're just going around it, so, just… why don’t you just tell me and be honest? I don't wanna you to… fool me, or whatever.”

_What?_

“Harry, no, wha- Harry, I would never. _I’m serious_,” Louis stresses when Harry looks at him, unimpressed. He raises his eyebrows at him, antsy. “Haz- Harry, the problem is always the same.” God, he knows how senseless he sounds, especially when it’s the hundredth time he has said the same exact thing. “The problem is not you or me, it's... It's Amsterdam. It's always Amsterdam.”

Harry remains still, for a second, like he’s expecting Louis to say he was joking, or to add something more and say something that would make sense for him too: because as to his current expression, what Louis said has none.

“... Wha- Amsterdam?” He tries, taming an irritation that is clearly building up inside him. “That's just it?” he asks, but gives Louis no time to respond. “You… you realise you have to stop with this shit, right?” He exhales. He’s sharp, cutting, and for a moment Louis feels he’s in front of a stranger. There’s nothing left of his softness. “Amsterdam is just a city, you can't use it as- as the... Image of everything that's wrong in your life.”

_The embodiment_, Louis nearly corrects him. “I’m not doing that, I’m saying-”

“But you do! You do,” he repeats, louder, to cover Louis’ protests. “You're always talking shit about _anything_ here, you're always complaining, don’t tell me you don’t know that.” And yeah, sure Louis knows that, but he didn’t realise it was a constant on his behalf. God, how weary it must be to be around him. Why would Harry even want (_have wanted_, maybe) him around.

“Amsterdam is not the point, Louis.” Harry is still talking. “Did you forget where you were, before Friday?” He tries to humour him, but he’s the first one to not offer even a smile at that.

Louis is so tired of not being understood, of overexplain himself, of the connection he has lost with anyone; but also, Louis is tired of _this_. Tired of seeming the only one with a distorted picture of reality, when it’s clear that Harry has it as bad as him. “If that, then you have to stop to do the opposite,” he challenges back, flicking his sugar bag across the table. Sugar grains get scattered even more.

Harry, on the other side of the table, frowns.

“You ran away, and from what?” Louis goes on, knowing how much this is none of his business, but too bitter to let this whole thing slide like it’s just his fault. “Did you run away from K-”

“_No_,” Harry stops him before Louis can even pronounce his name. There’s betrayal in his eyes now, not rage, not irritation. _Shit_. Is Louis capable of anything, if not making a mess?

“Don't… don’t talk about him. You know nothing about that.” He’s frowning again, but there is a note of pleading in the crease between his brows this time.

“Yeah,” he agrees instantly. “Cos you never told me, and how's that my fault?” Harry retreats to the back of his seat, lowering his head, chin to his chest, and Louis can’t see him anymore. He should stop: it’s not his place to ask, and this is not the moment; it looks more like he’s digging up random stuff just to not talk about what he should. But still, the need to be right surpasses him, and he doesn’t want to just let this drop. Being angry feels so much better than being miserable. “And now you're convinced this city is gonna save you, but-”

“Okay, stop, just… stop this.” Harry raises his head again, expression serious and set. “I'm not gonna talk about that, so stop it. That's- that's a- a thing for another time.”

_For another time. _There is a future with both of them in Harry’s eyes.

“That… that already happened, okay? This is happening now. So, continue,” he adds, determinate to not let the conversation go out of rails again.

Louis raises his palms, as to surrender, and can feel how the atmosphere between them had shifted to something a lot more aggressive. He wants to recover that, but he hasn’t even started yet. A couple of beats pass intense silence.

“Okay. I’m sorry, you’re right,” Louis admits, before saying anything else. He’s not sorry for wanting to understand, but he is for choosing this moment out of any else. At that, Harry bites the inside of his cheek and looks away, and Louis, with no idea on how to interpret that, just continues on his own.

It takes him another moment to recollect what he was talking about before that interruption, and his words come out a little garbled.

“So, yeah, umh,” Louis leans closer again, if anything to try to close the space between them. He thought it was clear, by now, how he feels about being here and _why_, and sure, maybe Harry is right and he has loaded Amsterdam with all his unrelated problems, but the point remains. He hates it here. He really does.

And, also, he hasn’t given Harry any explanation yet for what happened, _Harry has no idea about Liam_, so he guesses he can excuse him. _Excuse _him? He’s so tired, he doesn’t even know what he’s thinking. “It's not _'just that'_, there’s no ‘_just’_ here, because Liam's call really opened my eyes again, and, and, even if I can be fine or even _good_ here,” and how good he had felt, in those two days were he felt nothing could touch him, when he forgot about anything else and got lost in that bubble with Harry. He shakes his head. Now’s not the time. Maybe it never was. “I still have the priorities of my life back home, with my family. The values I really believe in,” he tries to resonate. “And I, I can’t _believe_ I nearly stop thinking about that, about all of them, before he called me, I-”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Harry interrupts his ramble, a lot more perplexed than before. He seems keen to understand what Louis is going on about, now, but he had crossed his arms, somewhere while Louis was drowning him with words, and he didn’t even notice. He’s leaned back on his chair, and the little space between them seems insurmountable.

It takes Louis a second to even understand what he just said. “What?!” what the _fuck_ is even he on about, how it can be good that he stopped calling, stopped asking, stopped getting involved.

Harry frowns again. They’re definitively not on the same page, here. That never happened to them before. “You… you _can’t_ be _that_ worried about them all the time, you know?” He talks gently, like he’s scared of upsetting Louis, like he’s trying to resonate with a petulant child. “You don't have to be everybody's saviour, Louis. And I'm sure none of those people actually expect so much from you,” he goes on, with honesty shining through his eyes. “Isn’t a good thing you did something for yourself? And what about, you _keep on _doing something that is _just_ for yourself?”

“You, you,” Louis stammers. He swallows past the knot in his throat. “You don’t understand.”

Harry shrugs, like he’s not completely bothered by it. “Make me, then. I want to understand.”

Louis stares at him for a second, incredulous, then closes his eyes and exhales.

Harry, Harry is too sweet to him. Too good, too genuine, too honest.

And Louis has no idea how much of that is for him and how much is just for Harry himself, but either way, the way Harry is looking at him now (big eyes, waiting, an hint of patient that seemed to have come back to him, a ghost of that softness that warmed Louis so many times before) makes Louis want to break down right here, in this bar where no one is paying attention to them, with a storm outside and the gloomy light of the early afternoon enlighten them, cheerful Christmas lights that can’t comfort anyone in every corner.

He’s too tired for words, too tired of not understanding what every other human seems to have mastered, too tired of being left out or behind.

And. How can Louis even start with all of that? How can he admit he was awful, simply awful, so much his best friend told him to not come back? He sweeps the scattered sugar grains off the table, just to do something with his hands. Liam didn’t even say _that_, but Louis doesn’t remember the original version anymore, not after he had repeated this other one over and over since it happened. This may be the scariest thing ever happened to him.

Where does even start explaining that something so simple as him not being there to help Fizzy unpack when she went to Manchester for her first year of Uni makes him want to tear his hair out?

How can he explain how terrified he is to come back and see his siblings so grown up, he won’t have space anymore in their lives? That he fears he is going to be just a face on Skype for the younger twins, just a dude that sometimes shows up and tries to buy their affection with presents? That he feels everyone is moving on, evolving, and he still hasn’t found a space that fits him in this world, and is now wasting time in this city that never wanted him? That it doesn’t matter that everything falls into place every single time they’re together, because once they say _goodbye_ the rest of the world is waiting for him, ready to hit him even harder than before?

Harry is wrong: this is not something _just _for him. It never was. And it’s not fair to Harry, too, how apathetic Louis is (_detached, _resonates in his brain).

“I… I can’t, how could I?” He sighs, cowering back on his seat, like his breath was the only thing holding him up. He has never heard Harry said even one word about his family, apart from after the march, when Louis asked him about it. They must just have a completely different bond and that’s okay, of course it is, but love isn’t teachable. He can’t just explain the heartache, the pure bliss, how is it to grow up with so many other children constantly around him, how they depended on him, how perfect it was to have always so much attention posed on him; and, of course, how annoying and wearing all of this can become, how chatty and loud they are, how insufferable they can become from time to time.

“I can just… I can just tell you that the first thing in my mind is them, it _has to _be them, my family. And how… how I should be near them,” he finishes, feeling even more tired than before. _Liam doesn’t even want you_, the sneaky voice of his paranoia reminds him. _You talk so much about this, but when was the last time you called them? Who are you trying to convince, here?_

Harry waits one, two moments. Maybe more. He looks as unsatisfied as before, and Louis doesn’t know what to tell him anymore.

“... Okay, so. What about all of that?” Louis tilts his head. What does he mean, _what about that_? That’s the whole point. “Louis,” he puffs. “You still haven't said, explicitly, what all of this is really about. Or what _I_ have to do with all of this.” Harry gestures himself, too, as if Louis had forgotten who has been talking with. Considering how is focus is being lately, it wouldn’t be a surprise.

Louis sits back and takes a moment to formulates his thoughts. Is late by now, and their tea and coffee and long gone; nobody is rushing them out, though: in the corner they’re sitting in, the waiter won’t even pass unless they call him. The loud group is still there, few metres from them, still laughing and joking, and for a second Louis wonders how they would appear in their eyes, and how all of this could look like in their teenage point of view.

It's not like Louis can say _“I can’t have a family with you”_ or _“but you’ve never looked into adoption stuff, do you even want children?”_ without Harry running away from him and never coming back. He would be in the right, too, they’ve been knowing each other for… for less than a month? Really, is that just it? He feels like he has seen Harry, actually _seen _him, like they had months together to spend.

His expression must have given him away, because he sees Harry, in his peripheral view, gesturing to say out loud whatever he was thinking.

He’s not going to say that, either. As Niall said, that’s not the point, neither it can be one. He likes Harry, he just does, and the number of the days is not going to change that.

The thought of exposing his family plans to him is ridiculous to say a euphemism, and it should feel the same for Louis himself thinking something so absurd, but it doesn’t, not completely. Now, _that _feels absurd: maybe they’re not even together, not in the strict sense, they’ve never talked about that, and all in all it’s been what, five days? He doesn’t even know him that well, even if it seems the opposite. Too soon to talk about babies, either way.

“I- I can't have something that weighs me down, here,” Louis murmurs, after a silence that felt endless. His gaze his lost somewhere around Harry’s colourful jumper, and he can’t snap back into reality.

“So… I weight you down?” Thing is, Harry doesn’t even sound angry: he’s upset, of course he is, and tired, he looks and sounds so, so tired Louis wants to send him home with the certainty everything is going to be alright. Above all of that, he sounds defeated. His question wasn’t a rhetoric one, either: he really wants to know what Louis is thinking, even if it’s probably the cause of his black circles already.

“No, okay, wait, I didn't mean that.” Words, he should know words, he _works _with those. Louis brings his hands to his face, as to cover himself for a second from the known world. He needs to buy some cream for those, they’re falling apart. Harry always has hand cream in his bags and his purses: it smells like argan and he’s always ready to share it. Great, now Louis can’t even look at his dry skin without thinking about him. “Just that... I've said this so many times to you already, and I’m sorry for that, but I, I wanna- I _have to_ go back. Maybe I could…” he starts mumbling to himself. “Maybe when I'll come back for the holidays I could speak to the CEO there, or-”

“What?” Harry is staring with his big eyes open wide. “What? You _planned_ to do that?” he’s frantic now, weariness forgotten, sounding almost enraged for the second time today.

“Wha- no, I didn’t.” Louis is confused by the intensity of the reaction, and even if he doesn’t understand _why _this was the thing he said that genuinely made him angry, more than his comment about the city, he wants to make sure Harry trusts him on that. Before he can think better of it and changing his mind, he reaches to hold Harry’s hand: Harry blinks, surprised, but after a moment he squeezes his back, too, holding it like a lifeline. “I didn’t,” Louis repeats, for good measure. “That was the first time I ever thought about it, I was just thinking out loud. But still, what I’m saying is… Okay, honest.” Louis takes a deep breath. He looks at Harry in the eyes, chin up and shoulders rolled down. It’s _Harry_, he knows him, he has spent every awake moment in these last weeks thinking or talking to him. He _knows_ him and he _owes _him this, to the very least.

Harry is staring right back, face blank. Louis can still tell a thousand of different thoughts are crossing his mind, even just for his micro expressions, for how he frowns or looks down sometimes, completely unprompted. For how quick his heartbeat his, through their still hands.

“I like you, darling,” the endearing term slips past his lips. “I like you, so much and- and I like _being_ with you, I like everything we’ve done together, but…” he can see Harry mouthing his _but _right before him, like he’s been expecting that a lot more than everything before it. His eyes are dull. “But my… _priorities_ are still not here, and I- I’d want to keep everything between us like this, but, but how can I ask you that? After what I said? I just feel like I can't give you everything you deserve,” Harry frowns at that, but Louis continues. He doesn’t have the heart to stop now. “I- I still feel like I'm in the wrong place, you get that? Both in life and like, cities. My mind is always somewhere else, you… you get that?”

Harry is still, silent. He has lowered his eyes and is now lost in Louis’ cup of tea, and Louis doesn’t know what to say more than this. The black hole in his chest seemed to get bigger, suddenly, and he doesn’t feel like he had just made the right choice. Not when Harry seems as hurt as he is now. Tears burn behind his eyes, but not the time nor the place, and he blinks them back.

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispers, when he understands that Harry is not going to talk, not right now. He squeezes his hand again, but Harry gives no reaction. His hand got limp in Louis’ one. “I'm trying to be honest, as you always tell me to, but it's not easy. I know that wasn’t something you wanted to hear, I mean, I believe, and- and it’s not something I’m enjoying doing, but… yeah.” He concludes, lamely.

Harry remains silent, biting his lower lip, frowning like before. He’s taking in everything Louis had said, and Louis gives him his time, without adding more. Outside, it starts raining again: the rain rails running down the big windows projects lines and shades on Harry’s lowered face, making him look like a character in a silent black and white movie.

Has Louis ever even told him how beautiful he is? How sometimes, in these weeks, just looking at him he couldn’t formulate any thoughts? How in those three perfect days they spent together, more than once he had looked at their joined hands and at his dimpled cheeks and wondered, _how could I deserve that? _That being slouched anywhere with him, while talking about anything at all and laughing in every breath was the best thing that happened to him since he landed here, four months ago? That the world becomes quiet and safe when they’re together, that everything else fades away, every trouble, every problem?

Harry looks at Louis again. There is a determination in them that wasn’t there before, but the defeat is still sitting on his face. Louis sweeps out those thoughts from his mind. _Another time_, he promises himself.

“You feel like you can’t ask me that.” He asserts, tone firm.

Louis has to search into what he had just said to Harry to be sure what he is talking about, before saying a “Yeah, I-” and getting interrupted again.

“But you haven’t. You haven’t asked me. You don’t know what I’d say,” Harry points out. The hint of accusation is still there, buried under the wave of disappointment that is drowning every other feature of his face.

Louis is uncomfortable, all of sudden. He has no idea where Harry is going with this (_is this how he’s been feeling since he sent him the text?_), and he’s not sure he will like it. He is not going to ask for that, it just doesn’t feel respectful. Harry _deserves _so much more than Louis forgetting their nights, Louis in a perpetual state of worry, Louis ready to leave him if he gets presented the opportunity to go back to England (_but would he? How could he-_)

“You’re still not telling me everything,” Harry continues “Which, fine, you don’t have to, but-”

“’Ts not that, Harry, not just that, I-” Louis interrupts him but doesn’t know what to say either way. Maybe it’s better to leave stuff a bit hazed than to make a proper mess, but Harry is exhausted by all of this.

“Okay. I got it,” he fumes, after Louis leaves yet another sentence without an end. The bite in his tone is back full force and there’s no defeat anymore, just annoyance. Even his weariness has now transformed into pure impatience and irritation.

Harry retreats his hand and sits it on his lap. Louis shouldn’t feel as cold as he does.

“I've never been anyone’s first priority, you know? Not even the second, to be honest,” he starts talking, almost too fast, too quietly, while sweeping the sugar on the floor. He’s shaking with what seems rage, but his eyes are shining already. Louis did that. He had ruined Harry, too. “’ve always been, don’t know, just someone that if was there or not wouldn't have made so much difference.” He forces himself to shrug, like he’s not saying something so painful. Louis wants to reach for him, wants to say something, anything at all, but he knows Harry is never going to let him comfort him in this moment. “Don't know why I thought it would've been different with you,” he adds, looking at him in the eyes for this. They’re gleamy with tears, but Harry is not going to spill those. “It's not like you ever gave me the impression I could've been someone important for you.”

Louis opens his mouth, gaping, and flinches back to his seat like he’s been hit. The pain he has in his chest is too much to be just _feelings_. He did something unamendable. When he realises he’s just been staring in silence, he throws himself again across the table, but Harry remains still, as far away as him as possible.

“No, no, wait,” an entangle of words and sounds coming out without permission, just motivated by desperation. “_Harry_. What? I didn't mean- I never said-”

“You did, don't even try to convince me. You said that.” He’s seething with bitterness.

_But he never did? _Where did Harry get that from? That he never was someone important for him? It’s just impossible, isn’t it? Louis doesn’t even know what to argue with, Harry is giving him no time to reconsider his actions or to defend himself.

“I told you, don't- don’t fool me. That's the bare minimum.” He makes another grimace, another twist on his mouth. “Don't try to twist this, or, your words, into something that is not. Don’t convince me.”

_Is that what he used to do? _Louis wants to ask, because he knows that would make him pause, but he’s not that much of a dickhead, to twist the knife in something he doesn’t know but it’s still clearly too fresh to be poked like this.

“I get where you stand with me, you've told me-”

“No, you don’t-” Louis tries again, instantly this time, because even if Harry is so angry now that doesn’t mean he gets to convince himself of something Louis never said. But he can’t go on, because Harry cuts him off instantly.

“I have to go either way,” he growls. He checks hour on his phone, and for a split of second Louis can see his screen: it’s free from notifications.

“Just- Just like this?” Louis stammers, powerless.

“Don't say that shit,” Harry mouths back to him, and he’s harsh, sharp like Louis had never heard him before. He withdraws from the table, still sitting, and starts grabbing his stuff.

“Wait, dar- Harry,” Louis bites his tongue. “What did you have to tell me?” he’s desperate to hold back Harry even just for a second more. Anything to not letting him go away while he’s feeling like this. He didn’t want this for today, he had no idea of what he was trying to accomplish, but he would have never hurt Harry on purpose, _this wasn’t his intention_.

That makes Harry stops from wrapping his scarf (_his, _not _Louis’_, he is reminded once again) around his neck for a second. “_Wat?_”

“In the text,” Louis continues, glad Harry is still paying attention to him. Maybe he can keep him here for another minute. “You said you had to talk to me too.”

“Oh. That.” He stops looking at him and finishes with his scarf, then goes to take his gloves. Whatever Louis was hoping for, it’s not happening, and Harry is still leaving. “It doesn't matter.”

The distance between them becomes an abyss. Harry is not talking to him, either.

“Wha-” Louis is lost for words. “Of course it does.”

“It doesn't. Not anymore,” Harry shrugs, like it’s nothing.

“How- how can you think that? Of course it matters, I still wanna know. I wanna know what's up with you,” he tries to resonate. He knows he sounds desperate, but he’s not important, not as much as Harry slipping through his fingers at this moment, ready to get lost in that dark maze of streets and channels and leaving him here, alone, at this table for two.

Harry stops putting his gloves on and turns directly to Louis. Everything – from his eyes, his expression, the set line of his lips – is stone cold.

“_Ik denk niet dat je dat verdient.”_

Louis blinks, before understanding that that’s Dutch, and he has no idea what Harry just said. “What?”

Harry rolls his eyes, looking completely done. “Nothing. Listen, I have to go.” He stands up and steps away from their table.

“Just like this?” he asks again, but this time Harry gives him no reaction whatsoever. “Harry, hey, why don't you sit down, c’mon, please, I-”

“Because, Louis, I don't wanna cause a scene here,” he huffs, his voice low, putting on his coat.

Louis frowns, interdicted. “Why would you-”

“Oh,” Harry snorts, like Louis said something funny. “_I_ wouldn't, that's for sure. And that's why I'm going.” He zips up his coat. “Also, I have other things to do in my life, apart from sitting here and hearing you sayin’ half-truths. So, bye Louis.” He turns away, rushing out, before Louis can do anything else.

Louis remains sitting there, looking at him storming away, the _I don’t wanna cause a scene_ echoing in his head and stopping him from running after him, with a nauseating lump growing in his stomach.

Hearing the bar’s door shut, in the distance, he realises the whole world went black.

Not blue or grey anymore.

Just pitch black. There’s nothing more left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ik denk niet dat je dat verdient: I don't think you deserve that  
************************  
Umh, hello? I don’t have many things to say, I’m drowning in Christmas and family stuff and the whole mess that comes with that, and I didn’t have the time I would have wanted to edit this for good. I don’t know, tell me what you think ecc ecc and I’ll be forever grateful to be distracted by the confusion that is going to happen these next few days.  
Also, the biggest sorry to Niall who had to wait 8 chapters to be introduced.  
I don’t know when I’ll be able to post the next one, but for sure in a bit more than the previous ones.  
I hope you’ll have wonderful time in the holidays!! Loads of love xx  
************************  
If you wanna check I didn’t drown in food, [ my tumblr ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/) is here, with [ the fic post ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/post/625001364010024960/amsterdam-with-you)
> 
> Bye!!! I hope I’ll see you soon :)) xxx


	9. 18th of December (part one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! How you doing? Hope you had wonderful holidaysss :))  
I managed to finish up this one a lot sooner than expected cos (chef's secret) I had to split it in two, it was becoming a monster kjflsdkfsl so now the chapters are 14. Oh, well, I hope you’ll like this one, I’ll just leave you now :)  
Warnings: mentions of children with illnesses and of hospitals

Life goes on. It has to.

Louis doesn't even remember how he got back to his flat the day before: the only thing he knows is that he had finished yet another pack of cigarettes and the void he feels in his chest is now mixed with his incapacity to breathe properly.

For it to be the right choice to make, for sure it feels like hell on earth. And it was the right one, there’s no reason to waste even more energy to think about the other possibilities when he had already chosen this one. He just wishes it could have gone in a smoother manner, that for some reason both would have suddenly felt heedless of the other’s affections, or they could have had an understanding between them of any kind. Anything but this mouldy, sticky feeling he could sense all around himself, that makes him destroy, ruin anything he’s ever cared for.

He has been staring at his ceiling for minutes now, his morning alarm silenced, completely awake but without the energy to step out of his bed. The black had blurred inside him, too.

He wonders how Harry is doing, what is he thinking in this gloomy morning, then stops to questions if his even his place to think about that, anymore.

The rain is strong as usual today, and Louis can't get outside his bed, and isn’t that familiar? The ground is calling him down, telling him to lay there and let it be forgotten by the others. _"Oh mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head"_, his brain tips him, uselessly.

Louis shakes the thought away and sits on the edge of the mattress. His movements are mechanic, he’s functioning on autopilot, but he’s still glad he’s getting up. Gravity has an unknown weight to it, today. _"I don't know where else I could go",_ his brain continues.

Self-pity is never the solution, he knows that, and neither is being stuck in his own misery: he had learnt all of that in the hard way. So, he gets up, makes his tea and goes out, ready for his fourth-to-last day of work for this year. His fourth-to-last day in this city.

This, too, will pass.

_"And it never really began, but in my heart, it was so real"._

~*~

His phone remains silent for the whole day.

He hadn't even realised how Harry filled his empty hours and days with his cheeky humour, his witty commentary, as on a constant mission to make him laugh and shake him out of the fog that seems to hunt his brain. Without the perpetual buzz of his phone, Louis is projected back to a month ago, with the blur of the days and an indiscernible goal to inspire for his future. Only, now he knows what he has lost.

When Louis looks out of his window now, sitting at his desk, overwhelmed for the pile of work he doesn't have the energy to do, he can't see anything anymore. The city is just dull and insignificant as always, but that didn’t cross his mind in how long? Days? Weeks? There's nothing here for him. Not anymore.

He sees people walking in the streets, strangers interacting, even his same colleagues existing in the same office as him, and he can’t comprehend how they are sharing the same space, the same fragment of life. He looks at all that life from outside, wondering if his hands would pierce objects and people, if he tried to reach for someone.

Lottie and Fizzy are so busy with their deadlines for Uni they dismiss Louis' calls, that afternoon. Louis wonders if they had felt the same mire he has inside now, when he ignored them in the past months.

As a last tentative, he texts Liam, asking him if they can have a chat, _whenever you can, or want. I’m here, text me or call me, whenever you want, really_.

Liam, differently than his sisters, even though he is still overworked and has and has far worse concerns to keep him busy, replies to Louis’ desperate call.

“How... How is he doing?” is the first thing Louis asks, cautious, after their bland greetings. He doesn’t want to upset Liam again, even if it’s like paying in a game where no one bothered to give him the rules. A new, scary territory where no sensible line of thought applies anymore.

Liam, on the other end of the line, across the sea, alone again in his empty house, sighs. Louis can already tell of exhausted he is, just from that sigh. “He’s stable.”

“Oh,” a relief motion lights up in his chest. “That’s…” Stable is _good_, it may not seem ideal, but he had days were stable would have been a miracle, others where it was the best word he's ever heard; and Liam probably knows that too well too, having comforted Louis so many times in those rough months. But Louis now doesn’t want to risk unnerving his friend by saying all of that, so, in the end, he leaves his words hanging.

There's silence from both sides. They're tired, drained, but even without saying anything, Louis is getting comforted by his friend’s breath, by the fact that he had chosen to spend this snipped of time with him.

“The tests’ results are inconclusive, for now,” Liam continues, after the pause. “We’re waiting for the last ones, but… for now, everything appears… I don’t know, normal.”

“Li, that’s great, I’m-”

“No, it’s not,” Liam cuts him off, like he doesn’t even want to hear a happy respond to all of that. “Cos they don’t understand where all of… _this _is coming from,” he sighs, pained. Louis presses a hand on his face and commands himself to take a deep breath. “And they… they don't know yet if he's gonna be home for Christmas.”

“Oh, shit, Li,” Louis murmurs, no energy to speak any louder than that. “That's...” there are no words to define that, except for _unfair, a curse, he doesn’t deserve that, none of you do, it wasn’t supposed to go like this, this is his first Christmas, they can’t do that_. “I'm so sorry. I'm sure he will be fine.” That’s all he has: empty promises. “He has all of u- you. He has all of you there with him,” he repeats.

“I- yeah, we hope so. And… Things are going so much better with Meli, you know?” For the first time in days, Louis hears something that could count as a _smile _in Liam’s tone. Louis is so happy about that, it takes him a second extra to register what Liam had said.

“For real?” a tired but satisfied ‘_mh-mh’ _comes from the other end of the line. “Liam, that's- that's so wonderful,” Louis is already on the edge of crying. He’s too tired and lonely and fragile to tame his emotions. “You two are so strong, I'm- I’m just so happy for you two. Even in the middle of all of this...” he ponders, out loud, shocked by the happiness of the news.

“I think this was the… the detonator? Yeah, that.”

“Yeah?” Louis sits more comfortably on his bed, back to the wall, trying to imagine himself cocooned in a safe, cosy space. He’s ready to listen to whatever Liam is willing to share. He’s so happy Liam is talking to him again, sharing this new, good thing with him. He’s so happy he picked his call up, even.

“Yeah, I- we- we just got...” Liam talks slowly, but still seems to have too much to share to not interrupt himself. “Point is, our most important person in the world got in danger,” he gets out. “I think it... Gave us a prospective. About what the fuck we were doing.”

“Oh,” Louis breaths, stopping playing with the hem of his sweater. _Prospective_. _The big picture_.

“Yeah. And, about how we were… _wasting_ our energy and time, always arguing about something that didn’t matter, when we could've just... I don't know, live our love.”

Louis can see his smile just like he were in front of him: he can see the signs of weariness, of insomnia, the jitters in his hands, but now, in his picture of Liam, there’s the softest of his smiles, too, with his eyes squinted and his gentle love written all over his features.

“I mean, it's been just a couple of days,” he continues, with the same murmur, the same respect, maybe the same superstition in the fear this won’t last. “But these past days have been… a nightmare, really. And...” he sighs. “And night conversations in hospitals are just so, so tough.”

Louis chokes on nothing. “Yeah,” he agrees, half for support and half out the pain of his own heart. “I know- they really are.” Silence. He closes his eyes, shaking his head. “I'm happy for you two,” he repeats. He is, so much, with all his heart.

They remain in silence for another couple of bits, the quiet between them now feeling more like peace than tense pressure, no rush in filling those moments.

“You know, love… love is truly the most important thing that exists,” Liam says, out of nowhere.

Louis is taken aback by that random comment. He picks up the hem of his sweater again. “Even more than real things?” He mutters back. There’s no bitterness in his tone: he’s so glad Liam and Meli are on good terms now and he has no intention of upsetting Liam ever again, but he genuinely can’t see the truth in what Liam just said. _‘Just love’_ is not taking you anywhere. He had spent four years in a relationship nourished only by love, and both of them know how that ended.

“Lou… what?” Liam seems to come back to planet earth, lost as he was among the stars of his newfound love. “Louis,” he starts again. “You’re the most romantic person I know.” _Is he?_ He doesn’t even remember the last romantic thing he did for someone. “What’s more real than love?”

Louis just sighs back: he’s tired and disillusioned, but he doesn’t want to make his friend sad, especially when he finally seems to be doing a bit better. He doesn’t want to get to his bad side either, not now that Liam sounds like this.

“Like, everything else is… secondary. Everything comes after love,” Liam keeps going, as determined to make Louis understand this. “Every argument and bitterness just... Wash away,” he pauses, but when Louis still doesn’t add anything, he sighs and goes on: “we- we have-”

“You both realised, now, how important what there is between you two is,” Louis supplies for him. He’s comfortable talking about the two of them. Just not about the platonic concept of love, not when, despite everything, he can still see behind the curvature of the world, but the person who made him realise that is not there with him. “And, how that is worth fighting for. Every battle.” _It was the right thing to do_, he reminds himself for the hundredth time.

_God, _how he wants something like that, too. He understands that for Liam to get to that point he had to endure so much heartbreaker, and, as in lately, the scariest thing that could happen to a parent, but… the way he talks about his love for his family, how ready he always is to do anything for them… Louis wants that. He feels so genuinely full of love he could explode, if he doesn’t find someone to give it to. _You found him, but you decided it wasn’t for you,_ a useless part of his brain prompts him. He shushes it and listens to Liam again.

“You know, I remembered what you told me, months ago, and I said that to her, too,” Liam muses. “Do you remember when you said _‘love is not enough’_?”

“Li, what, I-” _How could I ever forget, _that’s more the question. “I told you that before breaking up with David, what even- why-”

“That is not enough to maintain a relationship, that you need-”

“You need trust, too,” Louis croaks out. “And honesty and complicity and... Compromise. And will to go in the same direction, even if it’s not your ideal one.”

And he and David lacked in all of that. When they broke up, Louis still loved David, he still thought about him as _the one_, as _the love of his life_, as _the one I want to have a future with_. But his and David’s ideas of future entitled something too different to ignore, and the distance between them had grown and grown until they knew they couldn’t turn their faces away anymore. It hurt like nothing else in his life, to have that conversation, to say that, to recognise that they couldn’t have a future together where they both would have been happy and satisfied. There was no way to compromise something like that.

And, in all of that, they were still the same two young guys in love, they still knew each other like no one else on the planet: so, even if it killed them, they had to accept it, and go in separate ways.

_Love is not enough_, Louis had said to Liam, the weekend before breaking up with David. It still hunts him, that sentence, the awareness he had, at that moment, to say something so heavy and so true.

“Yeah, that,” Liam agrees with him.

“But love is still the most important thing?” Louis repeats, still confused about what his friend is trying to say. Love, alone, can’t be as important as everything else.

“Both can be true at the same time, you know?” Liam talks so gently, and no, _Louis doesn’t know,_ but he would have loved to have known a year ago, not now. “Because all the other things are important, sure, but can’t be there if there's no love, to begin with,” Liam continues, with the same quiet tone and consideration in his words. “The perspective of… _losing_,” he lowers his voice, like he always does when saying that, like he doesn’t want the world to hear something so terrifying. “The- the _best thing_ that ever happened to us… it made us both realise that the rest don't really matter. Nothing matters as much as him. It made us step back and see all of this with a new… mindset. A new view. And it was with the love we have for each other and for him, that we were able to do the rest. The compromise, the listening… we found a middle ground again, but it was love that made us fought for it.”

The tears in Louis’ eyes are crystalized, still, too respectful to fall now. He has to swallow a couple of times before he can choke out a: “I’m- I'm so... Happy for you. Really.” And he is. He still doesn’t know the extent of their fights, how desperate and sad and _lonely _Liam must have felt, but at least now he knows for sure that they are on their way back to their well-deserved happiness.

“How about you?” Liam whispers, so softly Louis is sure he had imagined it.

“Uh?” he asks, for good measure.

“Have you… found something to keep you there? Or to make you happy, while you’re there?” Oh, so Liam really had asked that.

It hits Louis now how he still hasn’t said anything about Harry to anyone. Apart from Niall, a random guy met in a moment of desperation, nobody knows how simply happy and peaceful he has been for those three perfect days, and for all the previous ones, too. How he was lost in a grey world, until something as odd as being hit by a biker happened.

Louis hasn’t said a word about the drinks and the nightmare, about sleeping on a couch too small with the most gorgeous guy he has ever seen, about sharing painful life bits with him, about the understanding between them; about being convinced to go on a swing on top of a skyscraper with him.

And how ready he was to say all of this on Friday, before his world came to crash down at what Liam had told him. All that happiness seemed to disappear, too, leaving a hungry gap in his chest.

But it wasn’t the happiness to have disappeared, it was Louis’ intention to see it.

Louis opens his mouth without saying anything, making grimaces alone, hoping something comprehensible could spontaneously get out of it. But when it doesn’t, because Louis himself has no idea what to say, he decides honesty is the only way to go. “I… I don't know. I don’t think so. Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Liam asks back, immediately, interested. Louis knows he expected a straight _no_.

What does Louis mean with _I don’t know? _Not to be cheeky, but he has genuinely no idea, no starting point, no way of wrapping these last days in some simple sentences. “I don't... I don't know if I wanna talk about this,” he tries to elude what he’s going to get himself into, but Liam is persistent.

“Why not? Hey, Lou-”

“Do you really care?” he cuts him off. He’s doing this for Liam, not for himself. Liam has too much to think about to listen to him, doesn’t he? He doesn’t want him to feel obliged to listen once again.

Louis can hear Liam’s frown through the pattern of his breathing. Louis knows this man like the back of his hand. “What? Of course I do, why-”

“But you've got so much on your mind and-”

“And you're there too, you know that, right?”

Louis shuts his mouth. He’s there, too? Among his worries, his fears, his heartaches? Can he really be there, after what Liam said to him on Friday? Louis doesn’t even remember what went down between them anymore, but he remembers how Liam didn’t have time for him and for his bullshit, and he remembers Liam was the one in the right, while he was the one behaving like a cranky kid, instead of listening to his friend.

“… Right, Louis?” arrives faintly from his phone. Moments had passed.

“I- I would hope so, lad,” he tries to joke, if anything to distract himself from everything he’s feeling.

“So?” Liam prompts him.

_So? _What Louis can even reveal? “I don't know,” he repeats, truthfully. “Nothing, probably,” _nothing, for sure_, his mind prompts him, replaying the scene of Harry storming out, leaving him there, surrounded by empty cups, pieces of paper and sugar. A war went down, there with them. “And I already know you'll gonna say _‘just go with it’_, so…”

“Well, yeah, maybe I'll do that,” Liam agrees, still trying to press him. “But maybe I'll be right, you know? Maybe that could be the right thing to do.”

Louis shakes his head by himself, because _maybe_ _that’s already over. “_I- I would've said no, last week, you know? About if I had something that kept me here,” he gets back to the previous topic, because at least he has something to say about that one. “And I would've said _yes_, four days ago. Yeah, I would’ve,” he whispers to himself. “But right now, it's an _‘I don't know’_. More probably a _‘not anymore’._ It really is.”

“What happened, Lou?”

“I- I really don't know how to tell you.” That’s the truth: there’s no way he can say everything that had happened while making it have a sense, a line, without feeling the hole in his chest getting even bigger than how it is now.

“That's okay, Lou, you don’t have to…” Liam lingers on his words, leaving the sentence open to so many things, and Louis knows he means every single one of them. “Just- just, Lou. You deserve nice things, too, you know that tight? You deserve to be happy, too.” Louis bites his cheek, trying to maintain a composure. _You deserve some sweet happiness. _He has plenty of moments when thinking about his mum he’s just happy, full of love and gratitude, but for the love of god, this can’t succeed in being one of those. “Even if it may happen to be away from home. Even if it’s somewhere that it’s not _here_.”

And that sounds so easy, doesn’t it? Harry said almost the same exact thing, and Louis understood where that came from, but Liam? Would he say the same if it happened to him? Is this solution so clear and simple for everyone except him?

He shouldn’t, but he can’t help but think that, while he’s the only one so sure about his role in his family, it seems like no one else thinks he’s _that _essential. He bites his cheek: that’s not what Liam meant, but for sure that is the only thing Louis can understand.

Louis remains in silence, knowing too well that if he says _anything _now, he will sob for a while.

“We'll hug it out, Lou,” Liam continues, sensing his vulnerability. “We’re seeing each other in a few days, yeah? We’ll be fine, and you'll tell me what has been eating you this past year.”

Louis frowns at that, perplexed by what Liam just said. “_Year?_” he croaks out, voice unsteady. “I've been here only four months.”

Silence. A sigh.

“This… this, whatever _this _is, started a lot before you left, Lou. Some of it was the breakup, but it wasn't all of it,” he resonates. “And now you're there, I just feel like you've gotten worse and worse. But it’s not a recent thing, it’s not… since Amsterdam.”

Has he been like this even before coming here? Detached, with no attention span left, unable to keep a conversation up? He didn’t even realise. How tired of him must everyone had felt. He gulps his guilt down. It’s useless now. “Have I...? I, I haven't even realised,” he mumbles, more to himself than to his friend. _I’m sorry, _he wants to say. _I’m sorry I couldn’t be a friend even when you needed me, and I get that now you don’t anymore._

“That’s not important now, Lou. Come back, okay? We will figure it out together.” Liam sounds like a completely different person from Friday, and Louis is happy for him, of course he is, but now he wonders if he had made a life-changing decision based on something that entitled only his perception of the world, rather than what he thought was the objective good. “But for today, maybe you just have to do something nice for yourself. Talk to that lad, maybe, if that could make you feel better, or, I don’t know, you could… go to the cinema, or… anything, really.” Liam is rattling off things like he has no idea anymore what a person could do in their free time. He’s such a _new dad._

Louis is puzzled. “I should be the one reassuring you, why… what…”

“And you do, and you have done so much for me, do you realise that? And I can be a good friend for you too, in the meantime. This friendship isn’t a one-way road, and you don’t have to be the only strong one here, yeah?”

Louis doesn’t respond anymore, no energy left for this weary, too personal conversation. Liam changes topics, with a bit of difficulty, knowing that Louis wasn’t going to say anything anymore. The rest of their chat doesn’t last long, either: Liam has to go back to the hospital before the 6 pm traffic catches him, and they say their _byes _with a lot more softness and affection than last time.

Liam is back to his family, and Louis is back to his empty flat. Everything is back to normal.

The pull to isolate himself is back, stronger than ever: weird, maybe, but fitting.

Louis looks at his hands: they’re dry, flaky, even, from the cold and the lack of self-care, his fingernails bitten and short. He can’t create anything good with them. The move, the _Boekenweek_, the convo he had decided he had to have with Harry, started and ended with those terms.

He raises his gaze: his flat is still there, grey, dull, insignificant. Just like his life.

_No, wait,_ he interrupts his own line of thought. _Like his life except since Harry stepped in it._

Harry, beautiful like no one he’s ever seen, dimples on his cheeks, big eyes, witty humour, always ready to spur out some useless trivial facts, always ready to listen to him; Harry, probably with so much sadness and loneliness, too, under that cover.

Harry, who still hasn’t told him what that nightmare was about.

What has he done?

Everything seems so different from Friday now, and Louis wants to scream, want to ask _something born from such defective premises can be even considered right? _What Liam had told him was too conditionate from his burdens for Louis to considerate a sacred Grail of truth.

_“The other things can’t be there if there’s no love, first.”_ Liam’s voice reverberates again in his head, but this time is gentle, patient, and Louis can bring it back to its owner: he recognises this.

But, love? It’s not even been a month. But if it’s not that, then why does he still have a coal mine in his chest? This dark, voracious, pulsating black hole? Why colour has been drained out of his life, the moment the bar’s door shut close between them, with Louis trapped inside, still, rotting, and Harry free to fly wherever Louis wouldn’t stop him anymore?

Bits of the conversation he just had keep getting to him: the perspective, as Liam said, _stepping back and changing the view_: that was exactly what happened to Louis when, near Harry as always, was looking down to the minuscule people from the skyscraper.

Louis got a new point of view, that day, that made him realise what was the right thing to do. After the Friday’s conversation with Liam, he didn’t acquire a new, updated one: he just got too close to the matter again, making him blind to what he had discovered.

This is not about changing his mind, is not about going back to his steps: it’s recognising the big picture, the assemble of everything that lead him _there_.

This is not even about him, anymore: is about the mess he had made when he had no right to do so, is about how he had hurt Harry, how he had _seen _that and did nothing to change his mind. _“You never gave me the impression I could have been someone important to you,” _he had said, and Louis made him walk away with that conviction re-affirmed in his brain. It has always been the polar opposite for him, with Harry being the most important person in his life in this last month of living, but Louis is starting to realise now that in this spiral of catastrophic thoughts, of loneliness and misery, he had become blind to his own mistakes, and completely mute to what he really was feeling.

Liam had said that, and even if Louis doesn’t remember his tone anymore, the core of the meaning is still there: he’s detached, separated, too far away to make people understand what he means and what he wants; but not away enough to not hurt them.

He owes Harry this: to tell him all the wonderful things he couldn’t say yesterday, too lost in his head, with no good moment, no opportunity to blurt out how he really had felt since he came in his life. It’s not about personal gain or forgiveness, it is about not be the reason for Harry’s dark circles anymore.

It’s raining outside, of course it is, but Louis still grabs his coat and rushes outside, before he could risk changing his mind again.

~*~

“What are you doing here?”

Harry is too surprised to remember to act cold. His dark circles are even worse now, with no concealer to cover them up, nor to cover those few pimples he has on the side of his forehead; and there’s no flashy outfit to distract Louis from how spent he is, just sweatpants and an old sweater to remind him how many boundaries he is breaking through without asking for permission, turning up with no notice to his doorstep, completely out of the blue.

A hairclip pushes his curls back, and he seems exposed, bared: Louis has never seen his hair like that before, and everything about him looks too personal to be shared like this, without his assent beforehand.

Harry stares at him, frozen on his flat’s landing, curled on himself as if he’s trying to hide all of that, like he wants to exclude Louis from such an intimate moment of him tired after work, chilling by himself in his flat, dressed simply because he’s not entertaining anyone.

_(So honest, and simple, and pure, almost)._

“I didn’t tell you everything yesterday. You were right.” Louis is still as Harry is, looking at him with the same tired eyes as yesterday. He’s panting, heavy breathing coming out erratic from him, as without an order.

Harry blinks at him, waiting for Louis to continue, and when he doesn’t, he tilts his head, taken aback. Louis has so much to say, to explain, so much to give, and if Harry wants to hear him, he’s ready to go whenever. But Harry doesn’t give him any signals to go on: he just keeps looking at him, as if to read behind his moves, his forehead wet with rain and sweat, his flushed cheeks and panting breath.

“You’re shaking,” Harry observes, softly, after a pause.

He is. He’s dripping cold rain on the floor, trying to mask the trembling of his frozen frame. Wet clothes cling to him, no umbrella in his hand and just the limp hood of his jacket on his head. He’s frozen and hot at the same time, his face flushing and his hands red and useless for the biting wind.

“It’s- it’s cold outside,” it’s how he responds.

Harry leans with a shoulder on the doorjamb. “Did you come here by foot?”

“I ran,” he diverts the focus of the question, as if that would make things any better.

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you I was gonna come over,” he adds, after some more heavy silence, because that feels a good thing to state. “I- I don’t know. Felt like- _no_, wait, I _knew_ I had to mend things, and that I wasn’t truthful to you, and I just- I couldn’t- I came here straight away.”

He can see Harry biting his cheek. He stares at him some more, and Louis doesn’t know what to do apart from offering himself for that scrutiny, chest out, like to scream _“you can see me now, all of me is in front of you, I have nothing to hide no more”_.

“Come inside,” Harry says in the end, shifting to one side to let Louis step in. “I’ll get you some dry clothes,” he adds, turning around before Louis can say anything, leaving him alone in the entrance, a puddle of dirty water forming at his feet.

“You don’t have to, I-”

“I know I don’t,” Harry’s voice replies from his bedroom. Louis doesn’t add anything after that, just removes his shoes and jacket and wait for him to come back, soaking the warm air in.

Harry comes back after a few moments: he walks up to Louis and press the dry, soft clothes in his hand. He does all of this without looking at him on the eyes, not even once, his head bowed down the entire time.

He's _so_ nervous, Louis realises. Louis doesn’t know what to do about that, and stills for a second, Harry’s clothes in his trembling hands, Harry already facing away from him. He wants to scream that everything is alright, that if it wasn't he wouldn't have ran under a storm like the one that’s outside now, not for the entire distance between their flats, not when he can’t feel his lungs anymore, with all the cigs he's been smoking lately. That if anything, Harry should feel free to continue be angry at him, that he has every right to be, that for sure Louis didn’t come all the way to his flat just to upset him even more.

Instead, he gives Harry a silent _thank you_, and goes changing in the bathroom. Last time he saw himself in that mirror there was just confusion and disorientation written on his features, his eyes red for the weed and no idea how to proceed. He knows what to do, now. He nods to his reflection and steps out.

The clothes are a bit big on him, but that's the fit he likes anyway, and it feels like a warm, big hug is embracing him. He instantly feels some of his worries and weariness wash away, drowned like he is in so much soft fabric that smells unmistakably of _Harry._

He walks carefully, respectful of the silence that permeates the flat: the house is tidy and clean, a candle is burning on the bookshelf. Maybe it’s for Harry’s clothes on him, but Louis doesn’t feel nervous anymore.

The atmosphere is warm and safe, as if giving his clothes Harry had invited Louis into this intimate bubble.

He finds Harry still standing there, rearranging the already tidy kitchen as to convince himself he has something to do. He has his back turned to Louis, and Louis waits there a couple of seconds, still, before understanding that he won't turn to face him, not yet.

"Liam called me, on Friday. Before you did," Louis says, simply, to the back of Harry’s head.

Harry doesn’t stop moving the crockery around. “Yeah. You told me that.”

Louis nods to himself, preparing for what is next. “Kai's in the hospital,” he breaths out, quietly.

Harry stops what he was doing and finally turns around. “Liam's kid?!” he almost shouts. His eyes seem to bugger out of his head, eyebrows furrowing with worry, mouth too slacked for the shock to be closed again.

And isn't it ridiculous how Louis was fretting over Harry not remembering who Kai was, like that would have been a breaking point for him, as to justify himself for having been so short with him? When Harry always, always listens to everything he says, and then he keeps that everything in mind? When he's this dedicated to him, already, he’s full of affection, and Louis should know by now. Maybe that’s what is scaring Louis to the point of creating problems where there are none, just to have an excuse and walk in the opposite direction from him.

But he’s here, now, right in front of him. He has decided what to do.

“Yeah,” he nods, sadly, hiding a bit behind his sweater paws. “He has- had a prenatal condition. Though he was fine, turns out he's not.” Harry is nodding at everything he says, still aghast and frowning. He leans with a shoulder on the fridge, and even if it’s just a step, a few centimetres, Louis still counts that as something, because Harry had moved _closer _to him. Louis doesn’t know what to do with his body, too awkward to mirror Harry, too concentrated to sit down. He remains there, standing in the middle of the living room, still. “I mean, ‘heard Liam, he’s doing alright now,” he wants this to be clear. “But point is, Liam and Meli – his girlfriend – have been on short terms for a while, and… I don't know. By what he said, it seemed near to be over, between them.” He thinks back to what Liam said, the quarrels, the lack of understanding between them. He hasn’t been there for him at all. He doesn’t even know what he would have done if they broke up. “Got a bit lost in my mind. About why I wasn't there with him, and why I was here instead. And some things may have gotten mixed in my head, and I exaggerated- I exaggerated everything I’ve said too you.”

“Would it have made a difference?” Harry interrupts him, gently but seriously. He’s still frowning, but he looks reassured to know Kai is fine. “If you were there?”

Louis, against his own expectations, smiles at that. Something inside him gets unravelled: Harry is talking just like Liam. Maybe that's what be rational is about. He doesn't remember anymore how it feels to have rational thoughts: his ones are always so twisted.

"Probably not,” he concedes. “But I still took the blame. I know they're both adults, but that's my best friend, and what is happening to his kid is the scariest shit ever. I just felt like I abandoned him. Him and everyone else, and… And I haven't been there for him for months, not even in a, like, long distance kind of way, ‘cause...” he stops, unable to find the words. He looks outside the window: still raining. He wonder if he could drown, in those showers. Sure as hell he feels like he’s already doing that. “’Cause these last months have been hell, for me,” he finally adds, simply, looking at Harry again. He sighs, even if he doesn't want to, just to take a pause. Everything is heavy but Harry's clothes are as soft as before, and even if he's not looking at him, Louis can tell Harry is less defensive than before. He wants to be sincere, he really does but it's so... Heavy. Difficult. He’s not used to talk about his problems, he’s used to listen to people much more than anything else, but he owes him this, to the very least.

Harry looks so serious and concentrated, as to not lose even one word out Louis’ mouth, not even one tilt of eyebrows or grimace. “Or maybe it's more than months, I- I don't even know anymore. I can’t remember anymore and… I don’t know. It’s a bit scary, to have everything so mixed. I'm not used to that, I've always been so sure of myself, but now... everything I do turns to shit. I just know that I feel out of place, with no purpose, and I ruin everything I touch, like the _Boekenweek _and-”

“The what?” Harry interrupts him again.

Louis just shrugs, not wanting to relive that week. “Something I blew,” he dodges, making vague gestures with one hand. “But it's… it’s hard to not feel... So much like I'm at fault when it keeps on happening. When stuff like that keeps happening, stuff I should be in control of. And then, on top of that, I'm not even good for my friends, I'm not even good to my siblings, and they're the most important people I have. I… I wasn’t like this, you know?” it feels so weird to admit, like he’s revealing too much, like this one major failure is something he should keep to himself, something too ugly to let Harry see it. “Like, so quiet. And distracted, snappish. I don’t know what happened, I… I don’t.” He’s saying _too much_, he’s _too bare_. He looks down again, the right sleeve of Harry’s sweater over his face. “And- and my neck always _hurts,”_ he says to balance the words too full of truth he just let out. “Like, even my body is raging a war against me, and-”

“Your neck, you said?” Suddenly, Harry is worried again.

Louis raises his head, carefully to not upset his neck, and lets his hand to drop down to his side. For sure he didn’t think he could distract Harry from the other things _that _easily. _I've said a lot of stuff way more important_, he thinks. Who cares about his stupid neck?

“Yeah, but that's not the point, what I mean is-”

“Is the point for me,” Harry decides, leaving his spot near the fridge and marching over him.

Suddenly, he’s in Louis’ space, and before Louis can even blink, he cups Louis’ face with his big, warm hands. Louis’ mind blanks, his eyes shutting close by their own decision. The touch alone lift such a weight off his shoulders, leaving him feeling like floating. His hands are soft and smell like argan, and it’s so comforting and familiar and… What is he doing? Harry always cups his face before kissing him, what if- what is happening now, it was too fast- he’s still angry at him, right? Of course he is, what is happ-

“It’s this side, right?” Harry asks, and when Louis opens his eyes again, he’s studying the sides of his face, looking pointily at his left side. Louis barely gets the chance to nod at him, too surprised to question anything, before Harry presses the base of his neck without even asking.

Immediately, pain shots through his nape and shoulder, like an electric spider web, shaking him awake. He almost lets a scream out. Almost.

“Harry, what the fuck,” he growls, shoving Harry away and taking a step back, his own hand covering where Harry had pressed, as to defend himself. Lots of thinks he would have thought, but none of these were Harry torturing him. He must be angrier at him than what he thought.

“That's a _lot_ of tension you've got there,” is all Harry comments, looking unimpressed, his hands still up in mid-air.

“Yeah, no shit!” he shouts back. _What the fuck is happening_, he thinks again, his hands still firmly in place. No way in hell is he going to be physically vulnerable in front of him again. “Did hear _a word _of what I've been saying? I- I don't,” he sighs, exasperated with himself, tired and pained. He takes another step back. He kind of wants to cry, now. He had such a tangible hope, for a split of a second. “Can I finish now? The other stuff was more important, you know,” he nearly growls out. It’s not that he’s angry, it’s just- what even happened.

Harry shrugs as to say, _I don’t know, can you? _But under his exaggerated composure, Louis can see he’s still nervous. Maybe what he just did was his personal tentative to gain control over the situation. Who knows. “Go on,” he concedes.

They stare at each other for another second. “You made me lose the point,” Louis puffs out.

Harry crosses his arms, and he’s so _distant _again, the lack of understanding between them seems, _is?_, unbridgeable again.

“Your life is going to shambles,” he mumbles, shifting his weight to one foot to the other, tense.

And maybe that’s what shakes Louis out of his mind for good: how perpetually stressed and on edge he is, these last two times he has seen him. Louis has seen him in a similar shape only once, and that was when he _woke up _in the middle of the night after the nightmare. But for these last two times, he was the only one to blame. He can’t be another burden for him, not such a big one.

And there’s frustration, too, because he had felt better in the past week than in the past year _altogether, _and it’s a fucking shame that he let Harry believe he _wasn’t someone important for him_. Those words keep reverberating in his brain, hunting his every waken moments.

“Yeah, it is,” he agrees, lowering his hand from his neck to be vulnerable again. That’s the truest thing he’s ever heard. “And wanna know the only ever good thing that has happened to me in God know how long? That's you.” Harry’s head shot up, immediately. “And the only thing that's not going to hell? Still you. Always you,” he whispers, a lot softer than anything before that.

He lets his arms hang loosely to his sides. There’s nothing more to hide. He wants him to see him, really see _all _of him, ugly sides included, the fuck ups, his mistakes and how willing he is to mend it all, if Harry wants to.

Harry, on the other hand, tightens himself up even more in his crossed arms, shoulder to his ears, frowning, like he’s waiting for Louis to add something to crash him even more, to completely flip the script.

“... Me?” He says, after a beat, quiet as Louis, like he doesn’t want to hear the rest. Like he would be good just like this, but the hopeful tone in his voice unveils him.

“Yeah, you,” Louis responds immediately, not wanting to waste even a second more with him frowning and looking unsure like that. “You know, I came here, saddest and lost like only once before in my entire life, and I… I tried to cancel myself from the life I had before, but that did _nothing,_” he stresses, “but bite me in the arse. And, in this shit storm, you hit me with your bike and I... I fucking got to see a flicker of light again.” Harry is openly gaping at him. This shouldn’t be a surprise, not when he hasn’t done anything but thinking all this since the moment he has met him. Louis is done not talking and keeping secrets. He doesn’t want him to look _that _surprised over his affection ever again. “And I… I know what I said yesterday hurt you,” he continues, feeling the words coming out of him like a river. “But then you said you knew you weren’t someone important for me, and I realised that yeah, I haven't said everything to you. I- I managed to skip all the good parts. I managed to let you believe that, and I… I couldn’t let you continue to believe that. Not when for me, is the total opposite.”

Harry is blinking at him as to convince himself that this is real, this is happening right in front of him. He had gained a bit of colour back on his cheeks, but he’s not blushing, not quite. His eyes are wide open with surprise, and Louis has to bite his cheek to not smile at the frog expression. He’s so, so fond, but he’ll have time, if Harry will have him, to smile at him.

“Y-yeah?” he stutters out, all in shock.

“Did I ever tell you how I stopped feeling real before you knock me on the ground?” Louis decides to change path, going onto concrete stuff. Harry grimaces, but remain silent, genuine concern over his features. “I had given up on so many things. I couldn't see the point anymore, in my work, in my staying here, in… so many other things. I… I kept going on just for… just for inertia,” he’s back to whispering, not looking at Harry again, too scared and ashamed to admit how dark and hopeless his times had been. “But... Then… then you came by.” He smiles to himself at that. “And I felt like I could see colours again.” He raises his shoulders as to say, _what can you do_, and meets Harry’s eyes again: he’s so serious, still, but a hint of a smile is poking a corner of his mouth. “And really, I... I don’t even know _how, _but I managed to make you feel like you weren’t important to me. I succeeded in never telling you any of that.” He shakes his head. “Tell you how… how I love how you always listen to me, even when I make no sense at all, cos, you know? I spent the last months in total silence. I forgot so much of human interaction, I've nearly forgotten what life has given me for 26 years. And yet I... I let you doubt of this and _so much more_ just cos I didn't wanna be exposed and-”

“Tell me?”

“Uh?” he focuses back on him. He was getting lost in his own thoughts again.

“Tell me the _so much more_.” Harry gets closer to him, slowly, like he’s approaching a wild animal. Louis can see how how the change has already happened, how Harry is already more relaxed and trustier again. He had finally uncrossed his arms but he’s still hiding behind one of his hands, and there’s pure hope written in his eyes. They're so near Louis can smell his old, familiar coconut from him, and that reminds him, for a second, of the shot they shared at the bar.

_“You smell like honey,” _Harry had said. _“I haven’t stop thinking about kissing you since we sat on those stairs during the march,” _Louis should have replied.

“Love,” he starts, and he shouldn’t because maybe that’s not his place anymore, maybe it never was, but it comes straight from his heart, and Harry smile for a second at that, and all is well. “You are...” where can Louis even start? “You are so beautiful.” That’s a good place. “That's the first thing I thought when- after you hit me, y'know?” and Harry makes a sound that could be a snort, Louis is not sure, and his hands are itching to touch him again. “I just… I was there, fog in my brain, pain all over my side, and all I could think was _"wow, he's so pretty"_. And when we sat on those stairs? I didn’t want anything if not stay there with you and hear whatever you wanted to share with me, and I couldn’t believe I was talking to another human again, and that you were so lovely, that you had been so lovely to that girl-”

“Eline.” Harry is smiling behind his hand.

“Eline, yeah. How quick you were, so ready to help her. You made my heart doing backflips, there. And then? Then, I didn't care about the lights installation or whatever, I just wanted to be with you” Harry makes another smile again, a small one, as to say _me neither._ “And, and then, when Zayn was saying you two almost banged? God, I was _so _close to losing my mind at that, and I didn't want to think about why, because it was just obvious, already, I already knew but I was too... Scared? To admit it to myself, because it already felt too much, that I could never do something, anything halfway with you and I was so confused, no, I was, like… Petrified? By it all. I was shitting bricks. But then, the swing and everything, I…” he can’t say, _I saw behind the curvature of the earth_, because Harry was there with him, and he already knows that. “I… I felt so lucky to hold your hand, then, in those two days, so much it didn't feel real. Kept looking at you and wondering how something so good could have happened to me, when I clearly didn’t, I _don’t_, deserve anything like that.” Harry frowns, but Louis is not going to let him interrupt him, not _there_. “And lemme tell you, no one else would have convinced me to go on that fucking swing, but I feel like I would have done, no, like I _would_ do anything for you. Anything at all,” he repeats, and he’s tired as he’ll ever be, but he’s also light again. The curvature of the world, behind the horizon, is there right in front of him.

Harry is even closer, and if Louis concentrates, he can feel his body warmness radiating out of him like an aura. Harry is a fire, he’s a heater, he’s everything that brings comfort, brightness and warmth to this earth. And his eyes are so kind and open, and there’s nothing that separates them now. His shoulders are finally down, but Louis wouldn’t dare to reach out for him and hold him close, even though it’s all his body is begging him to do.

“My focus' shit,” he continues. “And I feel like my mind doesn't work anymore, for how lonely and... Grey I have been lately.” There are no words to describe how the darkness he had felt surrounding him nearly swallowed him whole, how lost and tired he had been. “I forgot how good life could be, but you… You made me remember, and you keep making me want to remember every other bit, you make me want to stop wallowing in this misery and start living again, fighting all this and be _good _to you, for real, to become someone who makes you feel at your best, you make me want to-” _you make me want to love again_ he should say, it’s on the tip of his tongue, it should go past his teeth because Harry deserves to hear it. But somehow, Harry manages to read it his eyes, and Louis is so, so sure of this, because in the tiny pause he does to recollect the courage to say it, Harry finally takes the last step and close the distance between them.

Harry cups his head, like he always does, and he’s warm and soft and _Louis knows this _and he has no knots in his neck anymore, he has no jitters left in his body, he’s finally just calm. His eyes close by their own decision _again_, but this time Harry’s lips are there to wait for him on the other side.

How he had missed the shape of his lips against his. How soft and good and _right _they are, how natural it feels to just kiss him again. And when he does, he feels the warms of his limbs finally expanding to his chest again, going to fill up the perpetual abyss sitting in his chest.

Harry has strawberry chapstick on, and Louis didn’t even notice, too lost in his head. He never wants to stop kissing him again, and he tastes like one of his bullshit herbal teas and Louis is so giddy he can’t even smile, too lost and disoriented, his body forgotten somewhere on the earth while he’s beyond all of that, he’s among the birds and the stars.

Harry starts moving, slowly, walking towards something Louis can’t see, _he couldn’t open in his eyes even he wanted to, _too lost and surprised and _happy_, and he lets him guide him backwards, and is this how Harry feels, when Louis tugs him everywhere he pleases? Just, serene. Trusty. Just ease and nothing else in his body.

The back on his knees hit something and he gets that they’re near the couch, and it is with his extensive previous experiences that he manages to sit down without a pause or a break, tugging Harry with him, who, instead, stumbles on Louis’ feet and lands a bit too much on his left.

They break apart, and Louis opens his eyes to find a bright-eyes, dimples-cheeked Harry, just like the one he knew, the one he wants to keep happy as long as possible. A giggle escapes from his lips, at them crashing on a couch like teenagers, and soon enough Harry is chuckling, too, and there is something absurd in all of this, in how some minutes ago they were standing three feet apart, how some more Louis was under the rain running towards him, without even the hope something so magical and so good could happen to him again.

He scoots closer, leaning his weight on top of him, and kisses him again, slower this time. Harry’s hands are back on his face in no time, and Louis tries to run a hand through Harry’s hair, but he had forgotten it was clipped back, and his fingertips meet cold plastic more than anything else.

“Sorry,” Harry whispers on his lips, and he has absolutely nothing to be sorry for. Louis is not even sure what he’s talking about.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs back, and moves it on his nape. He gets closer again and _God_, his lips are so soft, his hair is, too. He wants to live in this snippet of time.

Slowly, tentatively, he places his right hand, the one that’s not caressing Harry’s neck, on his hip, teasing the hem of his sweater. Harry gives no hint he notices or minds that, so Louis moves it upwards, to touch his hip under the sweater, no intention to go further. He’s warm, and _soft_, and he has the tiniest bit of love handles and Louis didn’t know that, they’re always covered with so many clothes and he can’t deal with knowing this now, and smile even more in the kiss. Everything is warm and good.

“Umh,” Harry says at that, and it buzzes on his lips.

It’s not a happy, willing _umh_, it’s more a _what are you doing _type of _umh_, so Louis moves a bit his head to the side, and retreats his hand, slow enough that if Harry wants to protest, to tell him to _keep it there _or to _keep going_ he would have all the time to do so.

He doesn’t. Louis puts his hand back to his own side. “Sorry,” he offers, knowing he should’ve said, should’ve asked something _before _that, not _after_.

“Don’t be,” Harry echoes him, and Louis presses their foreheads together, impossibly endeared.

He opens his eyes, distancing a bit from Harry’s face, and sees something passing, in Harry’s eyes, he can’t catch before it’s gone.

“Hey, love,” he says for no reason, if not that now he can. He puts one of Harry’s curls behind his ears, even if there’s no reason to do that, too, but he loves his curls way too much to keep this to himself.

“Hey, _schatje,_” he replays, tilting his head to trap Louis’ hand between his cheek and his shoulder. Louis there has no choice but to lean over and kiss him on his right cheek. Who even does that.

“_Schatje,” _he repeats, completely botching the _sch _sound.

Harry blushes, Louis can feel his cheek’s heat through his hand. “Feels weird when you say it.”

“Good weird or bad weird?”

“Don’t know. Just… weird.” He has a hint of laughter in his eyes. “Or more of a good one, maybe.”

“Good. We only want the good stuff here,” he tuts in somehow a _bossy _way, and Harry snorts again. _What he’s even saying, _his brain is fried, long gone, replaced with a loop replay of Harry’s lips on his own.

Harry’s lips. On his own. Oh god, he really managed that, didn’t he? For some reason, a beat passes and he’s not up in the clouds anymore, but back in a simple living room with another human being, one that deserves to know exactly how everything went to yesterday to today. Now that he looks at this Harry, the one with the soft eyes, cuddling near him, he wants to know if stuff between them is clear, clear enough to not have arguements anymore, not about the fundamental stuff, to the least.

“Hey, H, I still… I have a bit more to say.” He straightens his back a little, to look more serious, even if it’s impossible slouched as they are on the sofa.

Harry doesn’t say anything, but there is a hint of worry back in his eyes, and Louis just wants to destroy that from its primary root and never see it again. He darts a look to Louis’ hand, the one he had under his sweater for a split of a second, and he’s not a quick as he would have wanted, because Louis notices that.

“What I said yesterday,” Louis starts, to distract him, and he succeeds immediately, Harry’s eyes – and his preoccupation with them – are now fixated on him. “You have to know, love, that’s… that’s still real.”

Harry nods to himself once, serious. He shifts imperceptibly away from him. “Which part?” he asks, which is a clever way to say _I dare you to repeat any of that now_.

Louis has a shit ton of respect for him.

“The part that… I want to be closer to my family, and that for me they are...” he doesn’t want to say _priority_ because that’s one of the words that made Harry the most upset yesterday. “Just, they are important for me, okay? I care about them _a lot_. And about my life in England, too. That’s important for me, too.”

“Oh. But I know that.” He’s smiling again, and the worry in his eyes is gone.

And Louis is happy he is smiling again, but they have to be on the same page here. All of this seems to have gone way too well, way too easily. “But do you?” he stresses.

“I do. And it's alright.” He shifts closer to move Louis’ hair out of his face (it’s _so long_, he hasn’t gone to the barber in _ages_). “_Hoe kan ik boos zijn als je precies doet waar ik van droomde?_” he whispers, like it’s a secret, like Louis would be able to understand him in other circumstances.

“What did you say, love?”

“Nothing.” Louis kind of expected that. “But I have stuff to say, too.”

And _that’s _interesting. “Yeah?” he scoots even closer to him, his upper body completely leaned on him.

“Yeah, like… okay.” He takes a big breath, and focuses his eyes on the ground. Louis doesn’t like that, doesn’t like to think of himself as someone too scary for Harry to look in the eyes, but doesn’t say anything. “I’m… like, of course happy you came and said all that but…” he pauses again, and Louis takes advantage of that to starts tracing his curls again. Harry closes his eyes for a moment, and what he says next rushes out him in one breath. “But it’s not like you can say a bunch of romantic stuff and all is… well, okay?”

Louis, on his parts, just nods and says _“yeah”,_ softly. Harry is right, of course he is.

Harry seems to have some confidence back now that Louis agreed with him, and continues: “Like… I’m- I’m glad you told me so much about you and about how… this last period of your life has been, because I… I didn’t know any of that, I didn’t get it was so… like, that it was _this _terrible for you,” he talks softly, just like Louis had done while sharing the same bits. There’s so much respect in something so simple, he feels his heart swelling. “But, at the same time it’s not… it’s not like, you’re sad, you come by, say nice things and everything is fixed, okay?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he’s quick to agree this time, because he thought the same thing, some moments ago.

Harry stammers for a second, like he always does when Louis agrees with him, even if it’s something so simple, but looks decided to continue. “And I- I don’t know, but I can’t be the source of all the good things in life, or-”

“What?” he doesn’t want to cut him off, because Harry never talks about anything that inconveniences him, and sure enough, he shuts his mouth immediately, but Louis was too genuinely confused about that to not say anything. “I’m sorry,” he tries. “Continue?”

It takes Harry another moment to open up again. “I, I don’t know, okay? But, I just mean… when you said… that you don’t deserve this, that’s… that’s just, no. Being together and being happy is not about _deserving_. Like, umh, I-” he stammers some more, and doesn’t end the sentence.

Louis has the precise suspect he wants to say _love is not about deserving_, which, as true as it is, is also too big, too scary to say. And maybe it doesn’t matter, because maybe they’re thinking the same thing, and maybe one day they’ll learn to say stuff face to face instead of hoping the other one will get it.

“… Oh,” he breathes out, gaze lost. _Being happy is not about deserving_. He’s having a breakthrough after another today. His brain is full to the brim with information he should process. _Not about deserving_.

“And if for you I was… the… oh god,” right, Harry’s still talking, and apparently he’s blushing a whole lot, too. “The one that made you… that made you feel _real _again… I, I can’t be alone in that, okay?” he closes his eyes and then rushes out: “you would- you’re _gonna_ resent me so much, when- if- _Wait_, I have more to say,” he cuts Louis off before he can say anything. “Do you, do you remember I wrote _I have to talk to you too_? In the text?”

That’s an easy question. “Of course I do.”

“I... Okay, I have to say that. What I wanted to say yesterday, and all of that.” He nods to himself, finally looking at him again, and he looks _so _serious and confident.

Despite that, there’s a pause. “Go on, then?” Louis encourages him.

“I… Okay, wait for me, I'll go change,” he says suddenly, and moves to get up. In a second, he’s out of Louis’ arms, ready to bolt out.

Louis takes his hand, to stop him to rush out. “You have to go out? Should I leave?” that was too sudden for him, but he’s ready to be out Harry’s hair in a second, if needed.

“Oh, no, no,” he turns back to Louis, then he seems to think better of it and turns his gaze on the ground. “It's just ‘cause... I look terrible, I’ll just go change, okay?” the last part is said in such a rush it takes Louis a moment to understands it.

And when he does, well. What even is Harry talking about?

“Love no, what?” he squeezes his hand tighter, tugging him a bit to make him turn to him again. “You don't? You totally don’t. You wouldn't even if you tried.” Harry doesn’t look convinced _at all_, and he’s still avoiding his gaze. “Love,” Louis tries again, serious this time. “You're in your home,” he tries to rationalise. “You're cosy, and you’re tired, of course you are. You worked for hours today. It’s just, I shouldn't have dropped on you like this.”

Even if that's not the problem, why is he so insecure? He was so ready to talk about something important, why pick this moment out of any else to _go change_? That’s for sure not as important as what he has to say. All of sudden, why does he want to hide behind his flashy clothes again?

And he _does _look lovely, thank you very much. There’s something so soft and special in these moments where Harry let him in, accepted in his house despite they weren’t on good terms, let him see him with cosy clothes and his hair pushed back. For Louis to see him like this, it feels more intimate than anything they’ve ever said or done.

Harry bites his lip. “I'm glad you did.” There’s a smile, there, somewhere.

Louis squeezes his hand again. “Yeah, me too.”

“Still,” he says, taking a step back. He doesn’t leave his hand. Not yet. “I’ll just go, okay? We’ll talk later, it’ll take a second.”

“No.” He’s not dropping this. “You look lovely. What's this about?”

Harry doesn’t reply, not immediately, and Louis tugs his hand again, and this time Harry lets himself fall on the couch again. Louis hugs him the second they’re close, and Harry hides his face in the crook of Louis’ neck. The tip of his nose is toasty, and he fits there so perfectly.

“It’s just… I’m…” he sounds so uncomfortable, and maybe Louis was too demanding, and he is done making him feel like that.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he reminds him, because even if he’s dying of curiosity Harry’s comfort is always his priority.

“I know I don’t. For real, I know,” he repeats, beating Louis on time, who was ready to say that again. “But I want to. I…” he turns to Louis’ chest. “I had some standards. Like, over me. About what I should looked like. Like, umh, all the time? You know, before.”

_Before_. It reverberates in his brain, allow, ugly, like it was a matter of time, not of terrible people that got to mess up his lovely brain.

“And this, well, wasn’t one of those? He didn’t like me, like this.”

He’ll commit a murder, he is _going to _commit a murder and when he’ll explain it to the cops they will let him go, _he’s sure of that_.

“Well,” he croaks out, trying to sound less strangled than what he feels. He massages the back of Harry’s head, parting his lovely curls to distract himself from how angry he’s feeling. “Too bad for him, you know? He was total garbage _and _he never got to see how lovely you are like this. You’re so gorgeous like this.”

“I- umh.” He's blushing _so_ much he can feel his cheeks heat up under his chin. “Okay, whatever.” He still gets up, and he’s so flustered and Louis has never seen someone as lovely as him in his entire life. Louis smiles up at him, still slouched there. “Okay, umh, I'm going to the toilet, then, wait for me, okay?” _where would I ever go?_ “It'll be a minute. You… you can start a tea if you want, yeah,” and with that, he walks out the room.

“You know me too well, love,” Louis calls after him. He knows the type of smile that just blossomed on Harry’s face even if he can’t see him. He has a name for this type of witchcraft, but he won’t bust it out just yet.

Slowly, taking his time, still too lively and content to bolt up, he stands up from the couch, covering his hands in the sweater’s sleeves. It’s the brown one with the green detail at the end, near the wrist. Harry loves this one, he wears it all the time, and even if he probably gave it to him because it was the first one he had found, it still makes Louis’ heart swells.

Confidently, now knowing the kitchen in all its cabinets and pantries, he fills up the boiler, places a couple of mugs on the counter and goes to pick the tea. Harry is taking an awful lot in the toilet, and Louis suspects he’s still trying to do his hair or change his clothes. It kills him, how these rare moments that show up to the surface probably mean there’s so many more of those, buried underneath his confident stance, his cheerful presence.

He’s still rummaging in the pantry, ready to shout something to make Harry come out and join him again, but then he hears a door opening behind him, and calls, without turning around: “Love, water will be ready soon. What do you fancy?”

The door closes behind him. No replay.

Turning around, he continues: “Love, what-”

Words die in his throat.

In front of him, there’s a fuming, livid Zayn, with fire in his eyes, soaked from the outside rain and shaking for what seems equally the cold and his impetuosity.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He growls. He eyes him up and down, and when he recognises Harry’s sweater and sweatpants his eyes bugger out his skull. “What… what the fuck is happening here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schatje: ‘treasure’, ‘baby’ (this one is such a cute word bc ‘schat’ means treasure and ‘je’ is a suffix to make things sound small and cute, so it’s basically ‘little treasure’ and, aw)  
Hoe kan ik boos zijn als je precies doet waar ik van droomde?: How can I be angry if you’re doing exactly what I dreamed of?  
************************  
The song Louis is thinking about in the beginning is [I Know It’s Over](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iey0VOhxV2Y) by The Smiths, which is a personal fave and one of the best songs by The Smiths, honestly. The thing about how ‘love is not enough’ was inspired by [Redundant](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ydpSVvXE9k) by Green Day.  
(The playlist for the fic keeps on being [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL5momjAjTuX6twPBNWmdXHrC46ATa8szU))  
************************  
Just a PSA: there’s nothing shameful or ugly or wrong about feeling like Louis does and did here, his perceptions are still shaped by his own point of view. He can’t get out of his personal vicious circle, but that doesn’t mean what he thinks of himself is right. If you feel/have felt like he does, please don’t add this to the mix. Find someone you can trust and ask for a hand or a shoulder to cry on or a hug or whatever could make you feel better xxx  
************************  
I… don’t know when I’ll post the next one, for sure in the next decade (ah… ah?) (jhdgfkf how could I not do that come on)  
Let me know how you feel now that this happeneddd (I’m very happy yuhu, this finally was something cute to write, even if Zayn arrived with all his fury at the end). Just to be a bit clear on this (even tho I don’t think is important/interesting): *I’m* not a big fan of ‘uh, you said something nice so now everything is forgotten’, and neither are them in this. This is why I would have wanted to fit everything in one chapter, bc in the next one they’ll talk and argue a bit more, and all in all, be more honest with each other (but it was genuinely too long to not split, so, *big sigh*)  
Also, the brown sweater with the green detail at the wrist? That's the one Harry had on when they met c_c didn't write that in cos I doubt Louis would have noticed/remembered it, but, yeah, it's important for *me*, okay
> 
> [ my tumblr ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/), [ the fic post ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/post/625001364010024960/amsterdam-with-you)  
Bye!!! I hope I’ll see you soon :)) xxx


	10. 18th of December (part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiii!! How you doin? And, nearly a month later, I have the chapter! I hit a brick wall of uninspiration (this word doesn’t exist) and general weariness these holidays, but I hope you all had an amazing new year :))  
Very quick THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 1K+ HITS AND 100 KUDOS I’m a puddle of gratitude and happiness :’)  
Not a warning but: there’s A LOT of Dutch in the beginning, and, as always, the translation of everything is in the end notes (you can either not read it, and feel as confused as Louis does, or take the advantage that google is on your side here)  
Okay that’s all, byee :))

“Oh!” Louis drops one of the tea boxes he was holding. “Hi, Zayn,” he tries, turning completely to him.

Zayn's mood doesn't improve in the slightest. “Why _the fuck_ are you here?” he asks again, his voice vibrating in the still air of the room.

_I’m not doing anything wrong_, Louis reminds himself. He straights up his back. “I'm making tea,” he replies, trying to contain his cockiness, and gestures the two mugs. “If you wanna have some-”

Zayn’s top lip curls like he’s refraining to insult his intelligence. “That's not what I asked you- why are you in my house,” he spells out the words, like Louis is the last of the idiots.

“I'm- I was with Harry?” it comes out a lot less sure than he intended to, but the man in front of him is burning with anger clearly addressed at him, so. Pardon him to stammer his words.

Zayn's eyebrows shoot for the sky, but thankfully Harry must have finally heard something, because he comes out rushing from his bedroom. His _bedroom_. As Louis was suspecting, he has something else on – still a jumper, but one way less old and worn down than the first one. Still, that’s not the point, because if his panicked expression can suggest anything, is that what is about to unravel is going to be troubling for him, too.

“Zaynie, hey, what’s up?” he starts, with an over the top friendly tone. He goes to place himself in front of Zayn as to be between the two of them, even though there were still many feet to divide them. Whatever his plan was, what he was hoping for is never going to happen, and Zayn now looks even more irritated.

“_Harry, wat is er aan de hand?_” he growls again, and _oh_, he’s talking in Dutch right in front of him, and Louis can’t do anything about it. “_Waarom is hij hier_,” he adds, pointing at him.

Now, Louis doesn’t understand much, but it’s clear how the problem is _him _in their house.

“_Hij kwam zich verontschuldigen_,” Harry replies, still in Dutch. Okay, so that’s what they’re going to do.

He feels a bit like when he used to go to Stan’s house, when they were kids, and have his parents fight right in front of them. At least back then they had the opportunity to go out in the garden. This time, this, whatever _this _is, concerns him, and his only choice here is to watch this scene unfold from outside, with no real chance to intervene, like an audience at theatre.

Harry seems set to calm Zayn down and explain the situation to him. He goes to hold him by one arm, despite the fact that Zayn still has his soaked coat on and is making a mess on the floor. Zayn lets him do all this, but his expression turns even sourer by what Harry said.

“_Oh, verontschuldigde hij zich nu? Geweldig, dus al het andere is geannuleerd? Gewoon zo? Wist niet dat het zo makkelijk was_.” He sounds mocking at best, repeating Harry’s tone and expression, like he’s making fun of him. Is not Louis’ place _at all, _he doesn’t even understand what they’re saying, but he starts getting annoyed at the other man.

“_Nee, niet zoals dat_,” Harry rushes out, before stealing a glance at Louis, like he fears he could understand something. Louis doesn’t get a fucking thing, for a change. “_We moeten nog over een paar dingen praten, maar Z, hij is zo lief, ik zweer het. Hij was zo lief over alles, ik... we zijn best wel goed, nu, oké?_”

“_Hou je me voor de gek?_” Zayn _explodes_, shaking Harry’s hand off his arm. Instinctively, Louis leaves the counter he was leaning on until now to separate the two of them, but Harry sends him a look that unmistakably says, _don’t you dare, stay right there_. Louis stops. “_Wie geeft er nu om lief, na wat hij zei?_” Zayn continues, not even sparing a glance at him. “_Is dit echt zo gemakkelijk om je te manipuleren? Weet hij dat hij je behandelt zoals de persoon die je je hele leven slechter heeft laten voelen?_”

Again, Louis has no mean to understand what Zayn said, but judging Harry’s face, what the other man said was awful: he frowns and recoils, the tiniest bit, bringing an arm to his chest. Louis _doesn’t like that_, but Harry is quick to change again in a combative stance, and, well. Louis’ not going to fight his battles for him.

“_Dat is nee. Je overdrijft. Hij is niet-_”

“_Je maakt een grapje toch? Dit is correct Kees-gedrag. Je gebruiken en dan zeggen dat hij niet om je geeft?_”

And well, okay. Louis may not speak Dutch, but he’s not stupid and he’s not deaf: the sound _Kees_, even among words he doesn’t know, is too clear for him to miss.

“What? What did you say?” he gets closer to the other men, but no one replays to him. They don’t even turn to acknowledge him.

“_Hij heeft me niet gebruikt, wat-”_

“_Wat zei je dan gisteren? Ben je het al vergeten?_”

“_Dat is het niet, en... __Luister! Luister naar me, oké?_” Harry raises his voice even more, while Zayn puffs out, irritated, and rolls his eyes at him. “_Hij verontschuldigde zich voor mij en dat is goed voor mij. Ik ben geen hulpeloze baby, ik kan zelf beslissen_.”

He sounds so serious, so mature; but despite that, his words and tone don’t convince Zayn at all, who stares at him, unimpressed. “_Kan jij Weet je nog hoe je was toen we elkaar ontmoetten? Wil je daarop terugkomen?_”

Harry stops again, his breath seems to have caught in his throat. He crosses his arms and Louis wants to tear his hair out. “_Dat is… laag, ga daar niet heen_,” he mutters. “_Zayn_,” he continues, sounding surer of himself. “_Als ik dit kies, is mijn recht en mijn zaak om dat te doen_.”

“_Ja, natuurlijk wel_.” Zayn seems weirdly committed to mock everything Harry is saying. “_Het is ook mijn zaak als je urenlang tegen me huilt, en ik weet dat je dat opnieuw zult doen, nadat hij dat opnieuw doet. Ben je zo neuken stom?”_

Again, Louis is not stupid, and swear words are always the firsts you learn in every language, so, for the first time during this argument between them, he has a concrete grasp of what Zayn said. And he doesn’t like it, not even a little bit, because he _knows _he said something along the lines of _“how fucking stupid are you?”_. It doesn’t matter that he has no way to know the context for sure, because he knows no one should go around and say shits like that to Harry, to anyone for that matter: that’s the bare minimum.

“Hey,” he snarls, getting between the two of them, close to Zayn’s face, fighting back the urge to push him, and finally getting their attention. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Behind him, Harry sounds unsure. “Louis, don't-”

Louis is not thinking about him. “What the fuck mate,” he continues, undaunted. “You don't say that shit to m- to Harry.”

Zayn, in front of him, change his expression in a neutral one. For some reason, that makes Louis even angrier. “Oh, look Harry, so he _does _understand something, after all. He’s not that helpless maybe, is he?” he says, lazily, looking at him. Louis frowns, flinching at his words. “Is that the word you used, Harry? Or was more like, _inadequate_? Or _hopeless_? Don’t really know how to translate it, isn’t that always your job?” he shifts to look at the man behind Louis, and Louis turns, too. Harry looks distressed, bottom lip between his fingers. Louis feels like someone is choking him.

“Also, you’ve got some nerve to say that,” Zayn continues, composed, like he’s not making Louis second-guessing everything that happened in the last hours. “Like, so now _I_ shouldn't say that to him? When I already know what you’re gonna do next? But it's okay if you stood him up-”

“Zayn, stop-”

“And then say you’ve never fucking cared about him-”

“W-what?” Louis stammers out. That’s the only thing that makes him talk again. “I've never said that, what- Harry?” he turns to look at him to have his support, but he’s still looking at Zayn, afflicted. Feeling Louis’ eyes on him, he rolls back his shoulders, like to get in his fighting pose again, but doesn’t spare a glance at him.

“Okay, that's it.” He’s still talking to Zayn. He still hasn’t looked at Louis. “Zayn, you’ve got to stop.”

_That’s _what makes Zayn irritated again. “Are you for real on his side on this?” he fumes, irked. “You know you were right yesterday, yeah? Not now.”

Harry only shakes his head at that, then grabs him by an arm and drags him to his bedroom, both of them starting to argue again in Dutch. He slams his door shout, and after that, Louis can hear their screams, barely muffled behind the thin wall.

Louis, on his behalf, remains frozen in the same spot for what it feels an eternity.

_Helpless. Inadequate. Hopeless._

Is that what Harry thinks of him? What Harry tells his friends about him? What is he even doing, still here? Is he waiting for Harry to get out of his room and make fun of him again behind his back? Is that what was happening these past weeks, and he was too fucking _helpless _to see it?

It seems impossible, it _is _impossible, he should know Harry but… what if… he still doesn’t know so many things about him, Zayn for sure knows more about Louis than him about both of them, so what? Was Zayn right by default? Is it possible that maybe Louis just didn’t get anything at all? _Again? _He _is _detached and misplaced, here, after all.

And Zayn, why was he so damn angry at him? Okay, what he did and said yesterday wasn’t great, and they’re best friends and all that, but he never said _“I’ve never cared about you”_, that’s some next level malice.

Could it be- no, that’s crazy, right? It is not like he could have said that and then forget, right? It’s not like he ever thought that, how would- But, after all, he is forgetting stuff, important things, and he _is_ getting crazy here, right? It’s what he’s been saying for a while, what if he-

No.

He’s losing himself. That’s- that’s paranoia speaking. That didn’t happen, he’s sure of that.

He repeats it in his head, until he believes it a little bit more. This is the scariest thing that has ever happened to him, so much worse than Liam’s distorted voice in his head. He’s not sure of _his own _actions, not sure of _his own _memory, and now a few cold words from a guy he doesn’t even know that well are sending him _that _close to the edge.

A deep, steady rumble makes him go back to reality: the water he had put on is boiling.

He turns back to the counter, and goes to switch the boiler off. Water has been boiling for minutes and no one noticed, too intent in screaming at each other. For sure he didn’t, but he doesn’t get anything lately, could it be that-

_No_.

He’s not playing this game. He’s losing his mind, he _has been losing _his mind for months, but he’s not going to indulge himself, throwing himself down the rabbit hole.

He looks at his shoes and coat, hanging there, near a door that looks like his only salvation, now. He should just slip those on and go back to his flat. He’ll be home in three days either way, what is even going to change? What was he trying to do, what was he even hoping to accomplish, coming here? Running to Harry like he was in one of his stupid love comedies, with the promise and the intent of making everything different. Whatever that was, he was wrong.

His heart keeps on thumping, and he can’t understand how is it possible that _minutes _ago he was the happiest man on earth, smiling and relaxed, and now he wants the floor to swallow him, wants to go back to his depressing flat and hiding there. Anywhere is better than here, anyway.

He moves to get his shoes, but doing so he looks down, and remembers he has Harry’s clothes on. Suddenly reality comes crashing down, and they feel heavy, constrictive, the hug he was feeling before is transformed in a strangling grip. He can’t run away like this, _he doesn’t want these clothes on him anymore_, but does he really have no options? No options at all, just wait here, alone in this room, like a lost puppy to… to wait for _what_? To wait for Harry to come back and say _what_? Excuse himself _how_? Louis’ not sure he wants to hear anything from him anymore.

Nope. He’s going away, he’s going out before those two do, he’s not even going to say _bye, _he’s not even going to _look _at them, if he could only find his clothes, _where are his clothes, _how-

They’re still in the bathroom.

He slips in the empty room and closes the door behind himself, glad to see his stuff still folded on top of the washing machine. He goes to take them, and they’re soaked and freezing, dirty with rain, but he’s committed, he-

The voices get louder as Harry’s door opens and then closes again. The flat’s door opens, there are more shouts, then it gets slammed close.

Silence.

Louis stops, still.

“… Louis?” a tiny voice calls. It doesn’t even sound like Harry anymore. “Are- did you-”

He can’t do this. He gets out of the bathroom. “I’m here.”

Harry spins around to face him. He- well, he doesn’t look great. There are tears tracks down his cheeks, just to name one thing.

“Figured it’s better if I get going,” he adds.

“No, wait.” Harry walks up to him but doesn’t get close. None of them knows what to do. Whatever had been mended before, it’s gone. Louis is not sure he wants it back, either. “Don’t leave.”

Louis blinks at him, disbelieving. “Do you really want someone so _inadequate_ around you?”

He wanted it to sound biting, accusing, but it just comes out crushed. He turns around again, to close the door and put his damned clothes on. _Three days and I’ll be home_, he reminds himself. _We will act like this never happened or existed and we will be fine on our own._

“Don’t do that.” Before he can do anything at all, Harry is right behind him, doorknob in his hand, opening the door wide. He’s angry, now. “Don’t make all of this about you, you- stop this.”

Well. Are they going to be angry all over again, now? Fine. Louis can play this game. He has so much fucking rage pent up inside him, so much fibrillation and anxiety and paranoia, he could power a fucking city with his misery.

Also, _don’t make it all about yourself? _What the fuck is he talking about, about _who _should he make all this, then?

“Not about me? Fine.” He steps outside the bathroom, making Harry walking backwards into the living room again. He’s shaking, they both are. “So, let’s see. You told him I’ve never cared about you? And who’s that about, me or you?” He goes to take a breath, but continues before Harry can say anything. “You told him I’m helpless, _hopeless_, what was that for?” even channeling all his disbelief, his betrayal, that doesn’t come out as sharp as the rest.

“Don't,” Harry growls, again. There’s fire in his eyes.

“Don't?!” he exclaims in disbelief. “Not even that? What do you want from me, then?”

Is clear that Harry has no answer to that. He bites his lip again. “Listen, we were- we were doing better, right?” he starts, unsure. Louis is going to flip a table, here. _Better how_. Better at lying? Better at burying their true feelings? “We just have to-”

“We have to do _what_?” it’s obvious that Harry has no intention to discuss any longer, too tired and drained to continue shouting, but Louis doesn’t care about that now. He doesn’t care he rushed into Harry’s house uninvited, aware of how exhausted the other man was, and he’s now demanding an explanation out of him. He wants his answer or he’s going out. Simple as that. “You_ have to_ tell me what was all that about. Your friend came in and screamed at me that much? _And_, about stuff I’ve never said?”

Harry scoffs. “He screamed at me a lot more-”

“Congrats? What do you want me to say? Stop avoiding the point: you either explain to me what that was, or I’m out,” _that _succeeds in coming out as angry as he feels. He fucking hates ultimatums, always too dramatic and theatrical, but he wants to know what is happening here, and if that’s the only way, so be it.

Harry finally looks serious again; but with that, it follows his hesitant looks, and Louis hates it, hates how it makes him feel like he’s the only one at fault. Like he’s the crazy one, shouting about something small, while Harry is the calm and collected one, wise enough to know that it’s useless to shout. It’s not. _It’s not like that_, he reminds himself. _It’s not as simple as that_.

“No, come on,” it sounds almost pleading and maybe Louis doesn’t know him enough, maybe he’s already become mad and didn’t notice, but it sounds fake, as to make him feel bad. He can’t read anything genuine in his eyes, but maybe he just never known him enough. Maybe it was all a lie: after all, things seem to have been completely different for them. “Not… not now, come on, we-”

“Then _when_?” He’s exasperated. “When I'm back in England?” Harry lowers his head. “Hey, look at me,” he snaps, when Harry keeps avoiding his gaze.

“I did, okay? I did say that,” he finally responds, chin up and bold look in his eyes. “Now, can you stop? We were-”

“Stop?” he has to cut him off again, incredulous. “Like that? You're not even gonna tell me why? You’re not even gonna say why you told your friends I’m _inadequate_? What kind of word is that, by the way? Inadequate to _do what_?”

He’s having a meltdown, right here, in the middle of the living room of a guy he apparently doesn’t know at all, while he still has his clothes on, he can feel it. Words just come out of him, there’s frantic energy trapped inside his chest, air is not coming out his lungs fast enough, _nothing makes sense_, he doesn’t want to be here, he doesn’t recognise anything, he doesn’t, he- not.

Harry is not even replying, still looking at him with a side eye – is he scaring him? Is he behaving like a mad man? Well, he feels like one, so. He made this bed and he’s going to fucking lie on it.

“And,” he continues, out of nowhere, as if one could link two conversations just by saying _and_. “I've never said that I don’t care about you, I _would never_ said that, how can- do you understand how much I do?” That comes out a lot more pleading that he intended to, but it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?

Harry rolls his eyes, and it’s so mean and uncharacteristic of him, Louis almost out of instinct takes a step back. He doesn’t understand where he is, he doesn’t know the man in front of him. Everything is spiraling.

“Well, before minutes ago I had no idea, so, no,” he mutters back to him, in such a bratty tone it takes Louis a moment to replay.

“But… how?” he doesn’t get this. It just can’t be right. “I wasn’t crystal clear, okay, I admit that,” _because I was unsure and then scared shitless, I told you that and I told you why, you can’t blame me for that, you can’t hold that over my head._ “But what made you think I didn’t? And to that degree?” _That’s _what he doesn’t get, because Harry looked so sure of himself, and just one argument with Zayn was enough to make him sure he was the enemy, when _he’s not_. What had Zayn even wanted from him? Why did he leave without an explanation, without another word for him? It’s obvious how angry he was _with him_, so why all that chaos didn’t go down just between them?

He takes two steps towards Harry, because even in the midst of this whirl of anger, frustration and betrayal, he still wants to understand him; but the other doesn’t acknowledge him at all, too busy with his own irritation.

“Can you imagine what is like?” Harry is fired up again: he seems to have abandoned his design of not screaming anymore. The tears on his cheeks have dried, and Louis can’t see them anymore. “When I do so much for you and you- I- what do you do for me?”

Louis blinks back at him, genuinely taken aback. “What?” and then, again: “What… what are you talking about? I came here! I ran under the rain like I was in a fucking rom com! To apologise to you!” he stresses, like maybe Harry had forgotten him shaking and dripping rain on his landing a couple of hours ago, ready to do a 180° and go back to his flat if Harry wouldn’t have wanted him. Ready to give Harry anything he could have wanted.

Harry has his arms crossed again. If Louis had learnt anything about him, is that now he has his armour on. “Yeah, but… before that? Who cares about… big gestures when you’re not that, the rest of the time?” a flicker passes through his eyes. “Like now, for example.” He takes a breath and unfolds his arms. For some reason, he looks even angrier. “In which language are we talking right now?”

_That _really takes Louis aback. With everything they’re discussing right now, Harry is back _on that_? Like, _who fucking cares about that_, is he kidding? He wants to scream. It looks like he’s taking old stuff out, stuff that he reassured him over several times, just for the sake of being right.

“Wha- that?... Again?” he doesn’t even know if this is making him exasperated or just confused. “Out of all of this, you’re back on that sh- on that?”

Thankfully he catches himself, but Harry has already heard him. His eyes fire up, burning with a fury Louis would have never imagined on him.

“Yeah, that _shit_ again.” Louis flinches at the words: Harry’s voice is so deep, suddenly, vibrating with emotion. He still looks like he’s containing himself. “You know how that's like? When I have to make an effort _for you_ in every single moment and you don't even try to do the same? When I'm drunk, when I'm tired? When I don't remember the words?” he starts counting, and no, Louis didn’t really ever give a thought about it, about how Harry always had this struggle on him, while he took it for granted. “You know that happens to me too, right? I'm tired, and lonely as shit, too, you get that?” He’s facing him, expressing himself with his gestures, too, as if the pain he’s recounting is taking a toll over his whole body. “I know how that feels like and I always try to be there for you, but do you ever get your head out of your ass to see that others are in the shits as well?” he doesn’t. God, he’s so fucking _selfish_. Liam was right, Harry is right, they should all forget about him and carry on with their lives, why does he still bother others, why-

“Because I do, and you? You're always there saying how… how _stupid_ my language is,” unexpectedly, his voice cracks. A ray of an emotion that is not _pure rage _has poked through. “But you? You don't even try, you live here, for the... the…” he stops, not remembering the word he wants to use, and puffs out a frustrated sigh, which proves his entire point. Louis just stands there, staring, throat dry and guilt prickling under his skin. He would love to strip out of that as easily as when he was ready to take off Harry’s sweater. “The _foreseeable_ future,” he finally continues. “And yet! Yet, you try to be as distant as possible. You're so… ready to leave,” all his rage had deflated into bitterness. The man in front of him is just tired, playing a part he sees fit for himself. “Your flat is so bare because you _don't give a fuck about anything here_, not because you didn’t had time for that, and you've told me so many times, I should know by now,” he mutters the last part. “You're ready to leave,” he repeats. “I get that. I do. So why would you make the effort to... Understand me? When you… you can't wait to be back,” the last part was said with a decreasing tone, until Harry was nearly whispering to himself, curled up on himself, suddenly looking a lot younger than he is.

Despite that, the words reverberate in the room, as if they were standing in an abandoned, empty space, dark and cold as how Louis is feeling right now.

He didn’t get anything. Again.

“You...” he starts, because he wants to say something, anything, he wants to reassure Harry and to wipe that look away from his eyes forever, he wants to feel as good as they were before Zayn came in, but he can’t. He’s trying to understand everything Harry just said. His anger had transmuted in confusion and disbelief, and he’s back to not be sure if everything that happened was the same for both of them, when it’s now clear that Harry had hidden so much from him.

“Where… where is all this coming from, now? Why you never said this to me?” Harry is looking at him again, and, well. He’s frowning again, but Louis doesn’t know how to be nicer, not right now, not when he’s this confused over everything, when is mind is bending backwards to remember every moment they had together, trying to fit into those images Harry’s pain. He had never seen not even a hint of _this_. “I… I’m sorry but what, was I supposed to get all of that by myself?” He’s not actively trying to be an ass, but his own paranoia is already enough without leaving even more things unanswered.

Was everything a lie, the entire time? Why didn’t Harry say _anything_, instead of exploding _now_? What benefit does that have?

Still, that is not what he wanted to say, that is not what he should have said. Harry was coming down from his rage, but that just left a sad man behind, and honestly Louis would rather have him angry at him than this sad, even though that’s so selfish to think. He should have said something sweet, but he’s too lost, and he has no space left for decency, not right now.

Harry is still staring in disbelief and utter frustration. “Yeah, right,” he muffles. “Of course not, how could you _get me_? I mean, isn’t that what I just said?” his tone his sarcastic, sharp. He’s back again in playing the angry part, even if he’s too drained to really give it a go. He looks like he wants to go to sleep, or to cry, more than anything else. “How can you do an effort towards anyone that is not your sibli-”

Louis nearly growls. “Don’t talk about them.”

Harry widens his eyes. “I’m not saying anything bad! Do you hear me? Can you understand what I’m saying?” He’s shouting now, too, but Louis probably still doesn’t. His lines of thought are piled up, and he has no means to distinguish them, take a breath and _listen._ “You still don’t understand? Not even like this?”

There’s a note, somewhere in Harry’s tone, that’s just plain _pleading_. He’s just asking Louis to understand him, but he’s so lost in his own head, he can’t get out and recognise anything else.

“No, I don’t, I can’t- you were saying we were alright, but does this seem alright to you? When you’re this angry at me? Were you ever gonna tell me this? Or just be passive aggressive for the rest of- of time?” he keeps stuttering, keeps pointing at him and then himself, his mouth connected directly with the chaos of emotions in his chest, with no time to spare to stop a moment and think about this situation, but this situation _is _crazy, and he wants to get to the bottom of this, even if it means to argue even more, even if it’s clear both of them are too exhausted to go for another round.

Harry crosses his arms again. “You’re the one to talk,” he mumbles.

_Yes, he fucking is. _“At least I’ve told you where I was standing, I told you yesterday _and _before, and-”

“And I’ve just done, too!” Harry cuts him off. “Have you heard a word of what I said? Is that all you’ve got, out of that? That I should’ve said it sooner? What about, I didn’t because I was sure you weren’t gonna care? Because you don’t care about anything here? You didn’t hear _that_?”

There’s something about that last question, something so ugly and sneaky that Louis feels dirty and wrong and _distressed _just to acknowledge it, but regardless, he’s not going to stop. But, for the first time, this feels genuinely wrong to keep on doing. “Again, with that? How- what about before-”

“That was just now-”

“Well, you know, no, I’ve also got that you’re taking everything Zayn said as gospel truth, too, since he came here and suddenly you finally are properly angry at me, how can I miss that.” He sounds so sarcastic and snarky, it’s annoying even for himself. “Where would you be, without his input? How much of this is just him, _through_ you?” Being this mean to each other is never going to mount up to anything, but Harry is making no step towards him, and he’s too lost in his own confusion to stop being an arse. It’s not a valid excuse, but he finds himself unable to stop _fucking screaming_.

Harry doesn’t respond instantly. The moment of silence stretches out, leaving the words to hang between them.

“Oh wow,” he comments, after what seemed an eternity of them staring at each other, neither willing to drop their gaze first. His shoulders have dropped down, and he sounds so… _beaten_, all of sudden, and Louis wonders if he finally managed to cross the invisible line that makes things unrepairable.

“Maybe he was right, you know?” he adds. “Maybe he’s the one who’s right, out of all of us.” He takes off his hairpin, pinching it at the bottom of his sweater, and runs a hand through his untamed hair. He’s half turned away now, and looks completely over this.

Louis looks at him, powerless, wondering how he could fuck everything up _this _badly, with no idea of how he could go back to his place, now, and not dreading this evening for the rest of his life, when it seems so obvious now that there’s no way to fix all this mess.

“Sure,” he croaks out. “He made you cry, but sure.” He doesn’t know while he’s still poking at Harry, but he refuses to let Zayn be the saint in this situation. He didn’t understand anything of their argument, but it’s still always wrong to scream at your _best friend _until they cry and then run away, right?

_It’s not like I’m doing something different, _he finds himself thinking.

He drives the thought away. He doesn’t know what that was about, even if he has a much clearer idea, now, but he still knows that was wrong on Zayn’s behalf to act like that. If he was angry about Louis being there, he should’ve taken it out on him, not on Harry, and for sure not until the other cried.

Harry just shakes his head, still looking down, and goes to lean on the kitchen counter. He’s depleted. “I’m- I was just angry, those were angry tears. He didn’t make me cry, we just… argued. And you’re proving his point, right now,” he mumbles, at the end.

“Yeah? Which one?” He manages to not sound biting. He’s too tired to argue, and the mood in the room had shifted to something else that just feels like _defeat_, for both of them. “The part where he was so convinced I was an _inadequate-” _he still can’t get over that word, “-dickhead cos you told him so?”

Harry shakes his head, finally raising back his eyes on him. He’s tired, his black circles are drowning him, his skin is tight and blotched. He looks like these past hours have aged him years. “The part where you’re treating me like the person who made me feel the worst in life?” he suggests.

It sounds like a question, but it’s not a-

Wait, _what?_

“W- what?” his guts turn to ice. He knows he’s gaping at him now, but he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t do anything useful.

_You’re treating me like the one who made me feel the worst in life_.

He has done that.

Louis.

But… How? When? Right now, with all these questions and screaming, or yesterday, or even before that? Had he done that since the beginning? Has he treated Harry like that and never took a moment to realise it? Was he really so far gone, lost in his own misery, to not recognise what he was doing? But _when_, in which actions, how could he-

He has to stop thinking about himself for a second.

There’s no excuse he could give himself, no amount of his own problems could ever count for a justification of _having done that_. It doesn’t matter he didn’t know, it doesn’t matter he was tired, too, and too lost in his head, because he had let his own demons taking over him, and he had harmed _Harry._

For a second, he wonders if he’s faking it, if he’s blowing up stuff out of proportion just for having Louis apologising at him, like he felt when they started arguing, but it takes one, singular look at Harry to feel sick with himself to have thought that.

The man in front of him, tired, leaned on the kitchen counter, arms crossed and staring at the floor, exhausted and defeated, is sincere. He’s the one to have made the mess, he’s the one to have made _that, _and he can’t even take the time to recognise it.

Sweet, _warm _Harry, the only reason he didn’t fly back to his home, the only reason he didn’t bail out this awful city, the only reason he had started to get out of that darkness that had nearly swallowed him whole, the only reason he got to see a beacon of light again. The only reason he was finally able to move forwards.

And what he did back for him? _That_.

“Harry,” he tries again, but his voice shakes too much, he’s not feeling stable on his feet, and he _doesn’t understand, _he still fucking doesn’t, not even after all of this. “W- what are you saying, I’m sorry, but, Harry, when did he- Harry, I-”

“Okay, yeah, I said that,” Harry cuts off his avalanche of stuttering, still looking at the floor and massaging his temples. “I did say those things to Zayn,” and that’s _not the point, _not now, Louis doesn’t care about _that _now. “I exaggerated, I did. I said all those things and worse, I did, I complained so much, and it was all out of… anger, and I was so fucking _hurt_, and… god, you made me feel so fucking _naïve._” He spits the word out like it’s an insult, like the worst thing a person can be in life is _sincere _and _trustful_. It’s not, it’s not, it’s-

“But it’s because I don’t know you as much as I want,” he continues. “And you always feel so _distant _from me, and from _here,_” _detached, _it rings again in Louis’ ears. He fucked everything and everyone up. “And, honestly? I like you way too much and it always feels like… we’re not equal, between us, and I don’t even understand if it’s real or just me reliving the same shit over and over again, and… And that scares me so much, because… That already happened, alright? And now I’m… I’m so scared it’s gonna happen again. I don’t want it to happen again,” he repeats with a broken voice, and Louis’ heart is already gone, shattered, but that moves him to the edge again.

_It already happened, _and he almost made him feel like it was happening again, or maybe he did, there’s too much information flying over his head right now.

“I don’t wanna be that dumb, all over again.” Harry’s voice is cracking. He’s too tired to be doing this, to have Louis tearing his insides out. “It was so easy to be angry at you, to make you seem worse than you were. I could just blame you and not… I don’t know, stop to think that maybe you had your reasons too, maybe you were, you _are_, lost too, as much as I am. And, Zayn, you know, he’s… he’s always so ready to be on my side, so I just… Said things I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have. I know.”

He moves towards Louis, and Louis’ knees almost give out for the confusion and the anticipation and the _hope_, until he turns to sit down at the small table in the living room. Makes sense. Harry is shaking, arms wrapped around himself, and looks even smaller than before, and Louis has no idea how, no way he could ever fix all of this. Harry shouldn’t be the one apologising here, even if he’s not, not really, but for sure he shouldn’t be _the only one_.

Even knowing that, it takes Louis a bit to find his voice again, to be sure that if he’s going to speak, he’s going to say words and not just wails.

“Harry, I…” he chokes again. He can’t. Oh god, he can’t speak anymore. There’s magma boiling inside him and he _doesn’t know what to say, _except from _’did I really hurt you that badly’ _and _‘I’m sorry as I’ll ever be’ _and _‘there’s even a way I can make it up for you’ _and _‘if you want I’ll leave and never bother you again’_. “Oh _god_, Harry, I- I didn’t know, I mean, I still don’t, but- wait, sorry, that’s not…” he’s so lost. Harry is right. He’s lost, they both are. “Harry,” he tries again. “I’m so sorry. I am. I-”

“You didn’t, by the way,” Harry cuts him off again, and maybe Louis is glad of that, because he was choking on air and on words he had no idea how to say. Harry is sitting there with his face in his hands, staring ahead and not looking at him, like he’s confessing this to a higher entity, rather than informing Louis. “Like, you made me feel like shit, that is real, but I exaggerated, I told you. That’s why Zayn thought and said that. But you haven’t. You’re not like him, and I know that.”

A rush of pure _relief _washes over Louis, so strong he stumbles backwards to lean on the first surface he encounters.

“And, like, it’s not even all your fault, you know?” Harry continues. “Like, of course you don’t know that shit. You can’t read my brain and I never said any of… _that _to you. I told you _‘nothing had happened’ _and left it like that.”

Louis feels like he’s getting punched _again_. Does that mean that something _had_ happened or… what? He shakes his head and focuses back on Harry.

“God, this is… I have so much trouble to see it, you know? I try so hard to be rational about this, about… _you_, but it’s impossible when I can’t really trust my judgment, because I still see things… _distorted, _you know?” god, if there’s anything Louis knows, is that. The fear of not being able to trust _yourself_. “And I know Zayn is always on my side, but then again, what am I supposed to do when he tells me the opposite of what I thought was the right choice? And, when I know his reasoning is biased because _I _exaggerated, and then I think, what is even true anyway? And- how can I… decide? How do I, how _can I_ know?”

His words remain hanging in the air, so real and sharp Louis can see them.

How is he supposed to decide? Louis doesn’t know either. The only thing he knows is that he doesn’t want to hurt him like that, or make him doubt his actions like he did ever again. That, and how the only moments where he felt like life had gained its light back again, in this entire past year, has been when Harry was next to him.

“Which… one is the right one? For you? You only?” he whispers, looking at the side of his face, not daring to walk up in front of him. God, it’s so selfish, this question is so selfish, but he has no idea how to proceed, he doesn’t know what Harry wants, out of all this, and he’s too confused and tired to convince himself he’s not as involved as he feels.

After what seemed an eternity of screaming, the house if quiet again.

There are no sounds coming from outside, no sounds inside either apart from their breath. They’re the only people left of earth. All the chaos, the anger has quieted down. If they concentrated, they could hear each other’s heart thumping, the buzzing of their thoughts, even at this distance. If they concentrated, they could see how the earth is still round, how birds still fly free beyond the horizon, even when they’re inside their private bubble.

“What do you think?” Harry turns to look to him: he has a sad grimace on, something that could look like a _smile_, even, his hands still covering part of his face, and what he just asked sounded a lot like _isn’t that obvious?_

Louis has to close his eyes, too, just for a moment, just to digest everything that just happened, how fast everything spun around the second Harry decided to be the mature one and to not scream anymore, and he had let Louis see his soul. He’s getting lost again, everything is too fast, the room is spinning and he is losing his balance, he has to grip the wall behind him, but finally things seems closer to a conclusion, one he wouldn’t even dreamt as possible _minutes _ago.

He opens his eyes. Harry is still looking at him, patient, waiting, as he always does.

“I... Harry,” _love_, he wants to say, but he doesn’t dare. He walks, with wobbly knees, to the table where the other is sitting, and tentatively he sits down next to him. Harry is still waiting. “I’m- _I am_ sorry.” He’s ready to repeat that until the other understand how true that is, he’s ready to _act _like it, until Harry knows for sure that that wasn’t the real Louis. “I… I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know that I’m doing it wrong. Everything I’ve done has been wrong for you, I’m- what can I do? I… I didn’t know, but I didn’t _see_, either, and that’s on me. I should have. I should have listened to you more, and I should have been there for you, and I didn’t, but I… I wouldn’t have. I don’t know if it counts for anything, now, but I wouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.” He just hopes the other can hear the feeling in his tone, beyond his words, beyond the human barriers, and can meet him, to connect with him where all those things are just obstacles.

“And, for what is worth, if… if it’s still something you could want, I… This is the right choice, for me too. You know, despite what I said yesterday. This is it. I, I care about you, so much. I want to make this right for you, for real, for the first time,” he says, repeats, because Harry needs to know this and never doubt it ever again.

Harry lets his right hand fall down from his face and wandering in the air, so close to Louis’ one. They don’t touch. Not yet.

“But that's not enough to keep you here, isn’t it? It’s not.” He has eyes rimmed with tears, and even if it looks a lot more like exhaustion than broken heart, it still kills Louis.

He has to swallow down a couple of times before he’s ready to speak again. “I- Harry, don’t say that. That's not fair,” he says, he _has to_ say, has to remind this to himself, too, because in this moment he would give anything to him.

He would say ‘_I’ll remain here if you want me to’ _and he would be sincere, doing so, it would be real, and it scares the shit out of him, because how is he, too, supposed to understand and choose what he wants? He, too, has everything distorted in his brain. But every time they’re together, everything else just fades away, and that’s more real than his fears.

_Everything else just fades away_, and not in the scary way he had felt when his world crashed down, when Liam called him, but in a new, peaceful manner. The world doesn’t feel at war when they’re together, and he had never felt this clear how that’s is how it should feel like. He found peace, near Harry. He had even forgotten how this peace felt like.

He would give him the universe, now, and he knows Harry wouldn’t want it, he is only asking for Louis to stay, and he _would _stay now. It’s too much, it’s terrifying; and, at the same time, it’s totally not. It’s simple, crystal clear, possible. Right in front of them.

Harry’s hand is still mid-air, moving slowly as if it’s riding a wind only he can perceive.

“On who?” He’s not inquiring. He’s just open.

“On both of us, love.” It slips out, it just does, even if Louis wouldn’t have wanted, not yet. Harry doesn’t even react to it. Louis doesn’t know if he should count that as good or bad. “And I'm sorry, I am, because I've made such a mess for you, and I get that is so hard to trust me now. Or to understand what is that we both want. But... I want you. I really do.” Eyes to eyes, they’re staring past each other. “And I don't know how, but... But maybe, if we can be this honest with each other, maybe we... Maybe we can make it?”

He’s promising something so much bigger than himself, something he has no idea how to maintain, but if there’s something that he is learning, while looking at the man in front of him, is that he would do anything in his power to hold him close and safe again.

“And you're right. Of course you are, but I want you to know that I know that. Everything you've said is true,” he continues, carefully, steady. “I'm here to say that I want to make it up for you. About what I said yesterday, and now about how I made you feel for the entire time, too.” He has to take a deep breath after that. He still hasn’t digest that, and he probably won’t for a long time. “I’m sorry, I really am. And I… I want this to be good, okay?” he asks, tentatively, because even if Harry had said that _this is what he wants_, he hasn’t said that _this is going to happen_. And Louis is going to respect his decision, either way. “Want us to be honest, as you always say. I can’t bear any more… secrets, or fights. I’m too tired. I just want this to be something good, not something that makes us… fight like that,” he repeats.

Harry finally drops his hand, and it lands on top of Louis’ one, displaced not-so-subtly and not-so-naturally towards him. It’s not as warm as he had thought, not warm as it should be, and for a second he worries if the other is underdressed, in his new sweater, if he had been cold the entire time.

“God, yeah,” he agrees, softly. “I’m so tired, too. Always too tired.”

And it’s so clear and loud, _that_, in his dark circles and tense posture, his slouched voice and exasperated motions. It’s so loud in how the signs of exhaustion on his face are always covered with concealer, Louis had learnt today, and how beneath that Harry looks like he’s crumbling.

He takes his hand in both of his, decided to warm him up a bit. Harry follows the movement with his eyes, and lets Louis do that.

“And I, umh,” he starts and stops immediately.

_Tell me, _Louis thinks, continuing to massage his hand.

“I’m sorry I… I didn’t say all of… _that _to you, but do you… can you…”

“You… you don’t have to say sorry for _that_. I… I understand where that came from, yeah. Or, like, I think I do. And I’m sorry, too, for making you feel like this, and making you feel like you couldn’t talk to me,” he says once again.

“Not completely your fault.” He sounds bitter, but towards himself.

“I’m sorry for the part that was totally my fault, then.”

Harry nods, pensive.

“But, Harry, even if it’s hard for you… if it happens again, you have to say how you feel, okay?” he raises his eyes for a second, and Harry looks attentive. “I don't want to hurt you ever again, I would never. And even if nothing happens at all, I care about you, I care about how you’re feeling. I care about everything you want to tell me, but especially about the… _bad _things, you _have to _say those to me, okay?”

Harry is biting his lip again. _Shit_. “How am I... I can't?”

“You can't?” Louis is so surprised he forgets for a second to massage Harry’s hand, and he must have taken that as a bad sign, because he goes to retreat it. Luckily, Louis snaps back to reality quicker than him and holds on to that. “Harry, love,” he tries again. “You just did.”

He squeezes it, to prove he means it, and Harry loses part of his frowns. Thank god for that, but he’s still grimacing, nevertheless.

“Okay, yeah,” he agrees. “But how can I...” he stops and looks at the room around them, like he’s ready to take suggestion by anything. “Okay, understand me. Please.” He ends that locking their eyes, an honest plea in his eyes.

He looks completely serious, that’s the thing. He’s asking Louis to catch everything that has been through his brain, that led him to not share how he had felt, and Louis understands that, because Harry had explained to him: he felt like they weren’t equal, that Louis wasn’t going to care.

It hurts, it really does, but hasn’t been a saint to him or to anyone else recently, so he knows that is true, and is on him.

But now Louis had told, _promised _him he was going to listen to him, that he cares and he is going to keep on caring, so… why can’t Harry do it again, if the future requires it? Is Louis not being reassuring enough?

“Harry, love,” he goes, keeping his tone steady. “I... I’m not sure I do. Please, trust me? Tell me, what’s wrong?” he insists, when after the first question Harry had remained stoic.

Harry remains still for another second, then nods. He doesn’t speak instantly, but Louis remains there, just like he had done for him so many times, to wait patiently for him to find his words.

“I… I, umh, I thought he didn't even tolerate me, sometimes.” He’s not looking at Louis anymore, but he’s not intimidated, as he often becomes when talking about the past; he just looks pissed off, and honestly? Good for him. “How would- how- how could I have said… something like that?” He bites his lip, and before Louis can think better of it, he puts a hand on his cheek, his thumb circling around the corner of his mouth. Harry drops that poor lip, and does a half smile. “I- I was always scared on the verge of _'he's gonna leave me'_, how could I ever have said… anything against him? I couldn’t criticise him, you get that?”

He has a crease between his brows, like he’s just asking Louis to understand where he is coming from. And, well, Louis will never really grasp how all of that has been on him, but for sure he can promise him and himself to never become someone like that.

He has to let Harry’s words set inside him, before he can find the strength to respond something that is not _“Oh, shit, what? He did that to you? Where this fucker live?”_, and, even if not as strong as the rest, _“why didn’t you leave someone that made you feel like that?”, _because that’s not… useful.

“Hey, love.” He caresses his cheek again, silently asking Harry to look at him. When he does, after another pause, he continues. “I'm not him, okay? I’ll always fight to not be like him. Please, talk to me. I care about everything you will say to me, I do.” He smiles again, a goofier one this time, and adds: “And please, _do _criticise me, because I need it, okay? So I can understand you better, apology and not hurt you again, okay? No more anxiety, not over this. None. Okay?”

He said that with a smile, but it’s obvious how serious he is. He’s ready to drop the matter, but Harry nods at him, thoughtful and careful, like he had just sealed a death-or-life pact, and honestly, that’s a lot more than Louis would have asked for.

They remain like this, holding hands, sitting at the small table, too exhausted to even smile or talk any more at each other.

When Louis had hung up on Liam and decided to run here, he would have never imagined anything like this: the screams, the fight, making up and the fight again… it had been a rollercoaster of emotions. He’s ready to sleep for hours and think again about what just happened, or to just even sit here in silence, just to recharge a bit.

He is too tired and his head hurts so badly, his neck and back too: but he’s so fucking grateful, nevertheless, to have chosen to come here and doing everything he has done, the screaming and fighting included. They probably would have never reached this point without a bit of that, without showing to each other their ugly side and then deciding that yes, they still wanted to do this.

He looks up to Harry, and his eyes are half closed: without his flashy clothes and his cheery attitude, now, in this simple and intimate form, he’s spent and drained. He wonders, not for the first time today, how closer to reality is this version of him, instead of the one he’s used to; but, for the first time today, he has to ask himself of much of this exhaustion is his own fault, too, how many more problems he had caused to him, instead of helping him to lift himself up.

_Never again, _he promises himself. He knows he’s not going to mess that one up.

“This was it, by the way,” Harry mumbles, more to himself than to him, his eyes half closed. He’s going to fall asleep on that chair. Louis wants to wrap him in a blanket and make sure nothing bad is ever going to touch him again.

“Mh?” is the only thing Louis can say back. Maybe he’s closer to sleep than he thought, too.

Harry moves his head to the side, as to find comfort of support in his own shoulder. “The _‘I have to talk to you too’_ thing,” he clarifies. “This was everything I needed to say. No more secrets. That was it.”

_No more secrets. _Louis is going to honour that one, even with all the difficulties he has had with _sharing _and _trusting _lately. No more secrets.

“Thank you for telling me, darling,” he just hopes he doesn’t sound patronizing, but Harry just nod once, and the interaction is over. “Do you want that tea, now?” he finds himself asking, just for the sake of poking at him a tiny bit. There’s no chance he’s standing up and walking away from Harry just to make some bloody tea, now. Tea will never be as lovely as Harry holding his hand.

It succeeds in making him smile, a small but genuine smile, the first one since Zayn had arrived here. “God, you’re obsessed,” he comments, re-opening his eyes, but he sounds fond more than anything else.

They’re still holding hands, their fingers intertwined.

“I know.”

“No, but like, clinically.”

“I have to respect my own stereotype, you know?” out of nowhere, that Niall guy from the pub pops up in his head. It must have been the stereotype bit, but it’s still so weird. He wonders if he would care to know how sensational the execution of his advice had been.

Harry goes to add something else, but gets interrupted by a sudden, powerful yawn. He hides his face in the nook of his arm, and then remains there, leaned with his head on the table, curled up in a space that is still meant for both of them.

“You look so tired, love.” Louis runs a hand through his hair, and god, how he had missed this. He keeps the other hand of the nape of Harry’s neck, drawing lazy circles in his baby hair.

“Mmmh, that’s ‘cause I am.” It comes muffled by the fabric of the sweater, faint and dreamy.

“I'm just gonna go, then,” he offers, even if leaving Harry like this kills him a bit. They both have to sleep and absorb everything that had happened in these past hours. “You should go to sleep, and somewhere that is not the kitchen.”

He goes to stand up, slowly, to not disturb him, but Harry had risen his head the second he had said _‘go’_, and his now frowning at him in the warm light of the room.

“Hey, no,” he protests. “Don't leave me. Not now.”

He really doesn’t have to make everything even harder than it already is, does he. “We're gonna see each other in these couple of days, okay?” he reassures him, but still goes back to sit down, their chairs even closer than before.

Harry tilts his head, as if he’s processing what Louis is saying, and Louis remembers what he had said before, about how he’s the only one making an effort towards him, even when he’s tired as he is. Harry is basically sleeping on his feet, all the adrenaline of the fight gone, and is a miracle he’s still up. Still, he’s talking to Louis in a language that is not his, translating everything behind his heavy eyelids.

Louis can barely function in his own language, and for probably the first time he comes to genuinely appreciate the enormous struggle Harry always makes for him, always without a complaining. It probably won’t do much of a difference, and it wasn’t exactly the point of Harry’s speech, but he’s going to re-download Duolingo the second he touches his phone again.

“When you’re leaving?” He’s nearly slurring.

Louis has to think about it. It doesn’t seem possible that only today he went to work, talked to Liam and then came here. Time is an illusion. “This Friday.” That’s for sure. “So in… three days.”

“Oh.” Harry’s eyes widen a bit, even in his sleepiness. “That’s… soon.” He sounds so… conflicted.

“Yeah,” god, it really is. Things seem fine again, and he already has to go. Isn’t it crazy that hours ago he was happy about that and now he’s back to be sorry about it. “But now, you should sleep,” he repeats. “It’s basically night, already.”

He steals a glance to the world outside: it’s dark, it has been dark for hours, it was already dark when he came here. He has no idea what time it could be.

“I can't.” Harry holds his hand still, like he’s afraid Louis could say _‘whatever, bye’, _and be out of the room before he could do anything about it. When Louis frowns at what he said, Harry continues, hesitant: “I- I always have nightmares, like… always. And that night... It wasn't just one of a kind. I mean, the alcohol doesn't help, but they're... They're constant.”

The urge of being protective moves him, and without even thinking about it he scots their chair even closer, and pull him to himself, to hug him: the other doesn’t even have a second of doubt, and let himself crush on Louis, enveloped in his arms.

It’s the first contact they have in what it had felt an eternity, and with the weight and warmth of Harry on his chest, Louis can safely say that this is the right thing. They just fit. Harry’s face is hidden in the nook of his neck, while Louis keeps on playing with his hair.

“What they're about?” he finds himself asking, even if he kind of already knows the answer, because there’s nothing he wants more than help him, and maybe that entails fighting his demons with him.

Harry doesn’t move, and takes a second to reply: “Bad stuff that... Happened.”

Louis nods to himself. “They've been worse, lately,” he comments, because it’s true, they have been. Of course, it’s also because he didn’t know Harry at all when they had met so he noticed his behaviour less, but by how he had changed lately it’s evident.

_And I'm at fault for that_ goes unsaid, but Louis knows both are thinking that, and maybe that’s why it takes Harry another beat to answer that.

“... Yeah.”

Christ. _‘What have I done’ _doesn’t even cover it anymore.

Louis rests his cheek on top of Harry’s head, breathing in his hair. It’s something floral that he would never recognise, but it’s good, it’s comforting, it’s warm, it’s Harry. It’s really just him.

“What can I do for you? Anything, love,” he offers, and he’s serious. He would do anything. “Let me make it up for you.”

Harry moves out of Louis’ arm, straightening his back to look at him in the eyes. He’s so, so beautiful, and for a second Louis can’t breathe, too lost in the green of his eyes. He’s so real, so concrete still with his hands rested on his chest, living and breathing a few centimeters away from him.

_When did I get that lucky_, he wonders again and again.

They haven’t kissed since Zayn came in, and Louis glances at his lips, as quickly as possible, lost in the sweet disorientation Harry leaves him every time they’re this close.

Harry is squinting at him, for sure because both of his sleepiness and his tentative to read behind Louis’ eyes, and Louis lets him scrutinise his face, while his eyelashes flutter slowly, in their newfound peace.

“Does your neck still hurt?” he asks, in the end.

Out of instinct, Louis puts his left hand where Harry had pressed, hours (minutes? Days?) before. He wasn’t expecting this. “Yeah. Always.”

Harry presses his lips, like he had decided how to proceed. “Let me give you a massage, then,” he offers.

“What?” He exclaims, surprised. “No.” _Absolutely_ not. “I'll give it to you, maybe, if you want? You stay still, with those hands of yours,” he tries to joke, but he means it. He doesn’t want Harry to work for him, he asked that because he wants to do something _for _him, not the opposite.

By the look on Harry’s face, he truly wasn’t expecting a rejection.

“No, wait,” he starts, cooing eyes in motions. Louis is confused: it feels a bit like when he offered to wash his dishes for him, but right now he has no idea of why Harry would want something like that, now when he’s this tired. “I... I like to do that, you know? Like to be, umh, useful? And I’m good and you’re in pain, it's literally my job to-”

“Yeah _exactly_,” Louis interrupts him. Then bops his nose with the back of his hand, just because Harry’s there in front of him, and they trust each other again. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m gonna make you work, and after a day like this. I want to do something _for you_.”

Harry rolls his eyes a bit, but it’s sweet this time. “Let me do this, then, okay?” he has a smile in his eyes. “I’m serious. I like it. I do!” he stresses, when he sees Louis ready to protest again. “Shush. You're in pain. Come on, let’s sit on the sofa.”

He stands up first, tugging Louis’ hand to follow him, seeming renovate with newfound energy. Still, he’s wobbly on his feet, his steps short and slow. Well, if it’s making him _that _happy, maybe Louis will stop protesting. It doesn’t stop him from thinking he’s using him, though.

“What can I-”

“This is already-”

“Yeah, but are you-”

“I am.” He plops on the sofa and tugs Louis along. “Okay, now, turn around and tell me how you feel,” he instructs him. “We can nap afterwards,” he suggests.

And, well. Louis is not going to protest that, is he? But, after the first pressure, a tentative, shy one, he already knows he’s not going to remain awake very long. Harry’s voice is soft, his hands are, too, and he’s not hurting him this time, so he lets himself close his eyes, carried away by the safe sense of being protected and cured by him, knowing that when he will wake up, Harry will be still there, by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Harry, wat is er aan de hand? Waarom is hij hier_: Harry, what the fuck is happening? Why is he here  
_Hij kwam zich verontschuldigen_: He came to apologise  
_Oh, verontschuldigde hij zich nu? Geweldig, dus al het andere is geannuleerd? Gewoon zo? Wist niet dat het zo makkelijk was_: Oh, he apologised now? Great, so everything else is cancelled? Just like that? Didn’t know it was this fucking easy  
_Nee, niet zoals dat. We moeten nog over een paar dingen praten, maar Z, hij is zo lief, ik zweer het. Hij was zo lief over alles, ik ... we zijn best wel goed, nu, oké?_: No, not like that. We still have to talk about some things, but Z, he is so sweet, I swear. He was so sweet about everything, I- we’re kind of okay, now, okay?  
_Hou je me voor de gek? Wie geeft er nu om lief, na wat hij zei? Is dit echt zo gemakkelijk om je te manipuleren? Weet hij dat hij je behandelt zoals de persoon die je je hele leven slechter heeft laten voelen?_: Are you fucking kidding me? Who cares about sweet, after what he said? Is really this easy to manipulate you? Does he know he's treating you just like the person who made you feel worse in your entire life?  
_Dat is nee. Je overdrijft. Hij is niet-_: That’s- no. You’re exaggerating. He's not-  
Je maakt een grapje toch? Dit is correct Kees-gedrag. Je gebruiken en dan zeggen dat hij niet om je geeft?: You kidding, right? This is proper Kees behaviour. Using you and then saying he doesn't care about you?  
_Hij heeft me niet gebruikt, wat-_: He didn’t use me, what-  
_Wat zei je dan gisteren? Ben je het al vergeten?_: Then what were you saying just yesterday? Did you already forget?  
_Dat is het niet, en ... Luister! Luister naar me, oké? Hij verontschuldigde zich voor mij en dat is goed voor mij. Ik ben geen hulpeloze baby, ik kan zelf beslissen_: It's not, and- Listen! Listen to me, okay? He apologised to me and that’s good for me. I’m not a helpless baby, I can decide for myself.  
_Kan jij Weet je nog hoe je was toen we elkaar ontmoetten? Wil je daarop terugkomen?_: Can you? Do you remember how you were when we met? Wanna come back to that?  
_Dat is laag, ga daar niet heen. Zayn, als ik dit kies, is mijn recht en mijn zaak om dat te doen_: That’s low, don’t- don’t go there. Zayn, if I choose this, is my right and my business to do so.  
_Ja, natuurlijk wel. Het is ook mijn zaak als je urenlang tegen me huilt, en ik weet dat je dat opnieuw zult doen, nadat hij dat opnieuw doet_: Yeah, sure it is. It's also my business when you cry on me for hours, and I know you’ll do that again, after he does that again. How fucking stupid are you?  
************************  
Please don’t be angry at Zayn? I hate when he’s used as the token bad guy, and I’m trying to not do that here: he’s very protective of Harry, cranky, tired, and has his reasons to not trust Louis and didn’t expect him at all after *yesterday*. This doesn’t excuse him for being so mean to that same friend, of course, but try to see this from his point of view.  
************************  
Well, I hope you liked this and I can post the next one sooner!
> 
> Come say hi on [ my tumblr ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/), [ the fic post ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/post/625001364010024960/amsterdam-with-you) is here, if you wanna share it or anything else
> 
> Byeeeeee xxx


	11. 19th - 21st of December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hi, I have two things to say: 1) I’m so sorry another month had to go by before this chap, and 2) this is 17k words (and also I think it’s v good! I like this one!). I hope the two things can balance each other out. I hope you’re gonna enjoy it :)) x  
Warnings for this one: alcohol, nightmares, talks of past cheating (and past toxic stuff in general)

It’s bittersweet again, waking up and realising he’s going home tomorrow. Things were finally going better again, and he had only 48 hours to enjoy them. It’s absurd, nearly cruel to think he did nothing but wishing he was back home for months, and the second things were going well enough for him to be happy where he was he was forced to get away from there.

But is in moments like this, when he’s sipping on his third (maybe fourth) cup of tea of the morning, a conversation through text with Harry buzzing in his pocket, all of his colleagues in front of him _shocked _because he showed up that morning with Christmas present for _every single one of them_, Dael included, that he knows things are a lot sweeter than anything else.

He smiles to himself and looks at the messages: he and Harry haven’t stop talking for a second since Louis had left his place, Wednesday morning. He ended up spending the night, yes, even against their best judgment, which recommended them to let Louis go back to his flat, to avoid even more confrontation that could have happened if Zayn walked on them.

_“He’s not my mum and you’re too tired to take the bus,” _Harry had grumbled, cranky, once they had woken up in the middle of the night, after their accidental nap on the sofa. Louis had literally no energy to even dream of protesting, and just followed him into his room and held him tight for the rest of the night.

He didn't have any nightmares that night, probably because they ended up sleeping just a handful of hours. Louis shouldn’t have, but he had felt vaguely proud of his affection and protection skills, even when unconscious.

It was so weird to wake up from that, even worse than the time on the sofa: this time he had no excuses, there was no reason for Louis to downplayed Harry resting on his chest, calm, eyes closed and curls everywhere. Louis had remained frozen for a second, admiring him and the cherubic peace on his face, before realising his phone was going off from the bathroom. He instinctively raised up from Harry’s bed, to then stare at the unfamiliar room in complete confusion.

_Where am I_, ringed in his brain, the lack of sleep and the exhaustion of the previous day wearing him down. Harry was still sleeping, next to him, and Louis had tucked him in to go silence the phone in the other room, scared it may disturb him. With a quick calculation then, staring at his reflection in the same mirror as always, he figured that he had loads of time to spare, since Harry’s flat was minutes away from his office, and decided to bring toast in bed to Harry. Simple but effective, and honestly so rewarding, going off Harry’s surprise when he woke up, too.

Zayn was nowhere to be seen, so the two enjoyed their breakfast together, the steams of their mugs between them. Harry had the afternoon shift, _lucky him_, so he remained in bed, chatting quietly with Louis who was getting ready, drinking a coffee with crossed legs still under his duvet.

Louis knew it should feel weird, to have something so domestic and simple playing so naturally for them, with no hesitation, no weirdness of any kind; but honestly, he felt nothing like it: the way he and Harry worked was already beyond any type of afterthought.

When Louis had to go, he planted a kiss on his forehead (and another one on his cheek, and then another one on his lips and so on, until he was almost late) said _bye _in the softest tone he could and tiptoed out, in the angry cold wind of the morning.

Oh, wait, they had an interruption in their day-long chats after that: it was when Harry and Zayn went out by themselves last night, to gain back some quality-friend-time they kind of had lost lately, and probably as an excuse for Harry to re-explain the whole situation to his friend.

Louis was so glad they were getting along again, or going there (anything that is not screaming at each other counted as progress), he almost had a laugh when Harry told him, before going, _“I’m so sorry we’re not gonna see each other again today, you’re leaving so soon”_. Honestly, that mattered a lot less, in the great scheme of thing: they are best friends, and he genuinely wanted them to be on good terms (and not be on Zayn’s hate-list anymore).

He didn’t say this to Harry, had no intention in doing so, but he was kind of relieved they had some time apart. Of course their time was running down, but he recognised how much both of them had to reanalyse what happened, and being apart for a day was the best way to do so. In an ideal world they would have as much time as they wanted to do so, but they’re in the real one, and have to accept that they were about to spend so much time without seeing each other, _weeks_, when they had spent this last month in each other’s pockets.

It always surprises Louis, when he thinks about it, how swift everything had been, how little time they always had to be rational about this; but in the end it turned out _decently fine_, he would say, given his still-ringing-phone in his pocket, his new smile on his face. Louis isn’t looking forward to saying goodbye at all, not now that everything seemed fixed, even after the moments they had where whatever they had looked damaged beyond repair; but at the same time, he has never felt so happy at the idea of seeing his siblings again.

So, he knows the best thing they could do was saying _see you soon _in a sincere tone, and the best way to have that was to let both reflect to what when down Tuesday at their own personal paces. 

Also, considering he and Harry are going out today, on his last night in Amsterdam before Louis leaves on Friday, he’s not going to miss him that much (or at least this is what he had told to himself).

Tonight is going to be a great one, Louis can feel it.

~*~

Louis had a plan.

He had no idea if this could work, mind you – he also had no means to _discover _if it was going to work.

But still. He had a plan.

He had asked _“do you like beer” _to Harry, who replied with _“kinda, but it’s not my fave”_, which, in Louis’ opinion, and analysing is still too short Harry vocabulary, was just a polite way to say _“that shit’s nasty”_. He had tried again, with _“what about whiskey? Or spirits in general?”: _this time he was rewarded with a string of heart-eyed-emoji, so he felt safe to say that Harry’s part of the plan was going to work.

Still, even with that confirmation, and with an overjoyed Harry holding his hand and hugging his arm at the same time, chatting his ears off about his day and Zayn’s preparations for his Spring runway, Louis had felt weirdly not up to Harry’s expectations and desires to bring him to an Irish pub, for their last night together.

_Inadequate_, one could even say.

He shakes his head: words said in a state of complete rage aren’t accurate, and he also knows how Harry never really thought that. The point is not that, it’s just… It’s just, Harry bought him to a quirky and _chic _cocktail bar the first time they hung out just the two of them, and before that on a _skyscraper rooftop_, for crying out loud, so now, one turn left before arriving there, he’s left to wonder if this is something he could even enjoy, or if he’s going to disappoint him. His plan was such a long shot, too, even picturing a best-case scenario he couldn’t really say what he wanted from bringing Harry to this place, specifically. All he wanted was for their last night to be a magical one, so they could go to their own families with a good last memory, something that can overpower all the shit that went down between them these last days.

He can’t read Harry’s expression in time for when he opens the door for him, the warmth of the room and the cheerful _chaos _happening inside distracting him from studying Harry’s response, but when he turns to him again he’s grinning from ear to ear, a genuine sparkle in his eyes, so he feels safe to say, at least for now, that Harry is not disappointed with his choice.

They end up sitting in a booth in a corner of the pub, where they can see the rest of the space, and Harry is enthusiastic about it even thanks the waiter for it, gushing out about how _romantic _that is. Louis has to admit, too, that sitting close in a booth is far nicer than around a table.

The pub is completely different from his last time there: they improved their Christmas decoration a decent bit, and now green and gold tinsel decorate the walls and tables, as well as random fairy lights here and there that don’t really _belong _to the place, but are nice nevertheless. The same classical rock is playing, but is now almost drowned by the loud chatter and roaring confusion happening all around them: it’s only Thursday, but the Christmas break had clearly started already, and the pub is full to the brim with cheery, drunk people.

Niall is nowhere in sight. Louis had taken his time to sit down, keeping darting looks left and right, hoping to see the other man behind the counter or around the pub placing pints, but was met only with foreign faces. Harry had given him a questioning glance, without saying anything, and Louis just sat down next to him, ready to give him his full attention for the night.

His plan didn’t work out as he wanted but hey, he tried, and either way, he’s now sitting with Harry in a corner booth, ready to drink his beers and forget about the rest of the world for a couple of hours. Everything was golden and he didn’t feel disappointed at all: he had everything he needed sitting on his right.

While they wait for their orders (Harry went straight for a whiskey on the rocks, which, _okay lad_) they get more comfortable in their seats, still chatting about their day, no heavy topics in sight. It’s still early. Maybe they can have a night where they only enjoy each other’s company.

“Oi, sick nails,” Louis cuts himself off from whatever he was saying, as soon as Harry takes off his gloves. He has alternate blue and pink nail polish, and even if Louis’ used to see his hands so cured, this is the first time he has something so complex on. He has all his rings, too, under the gloves, and Louis just adores him.

“Oh?” he breathes; then, after a second, a smile blossoms on his face. “Oh, thank you! This is my favourite colour, look,” he adds, planting a hand in front of Louis’ face.

Louis takes his hand, turning it on his side, and takes a better look at them: it’s still two colours. Both of their hands are cold, but Harry’s one is so _soft, _and Louis, glad to have the excuse of examining his nails, keeps holding it.

“Bubble gum pink?” he tries. “Yeah, that's sick.” That’s a bold choice, Louis is digging it.

“No,” Harry say, giggling, squeezing Louis’ hand back. “Baby blue.”

Of course even when he only has two option he still doesn’t get it right. “Baby blue? Good choice, good choice,” he comments, playing in his head how unexpected but _heart-warming _was to hear Harry say _baby_.

Harry tilts his head a bit to the side, inspecting look in his eyes. “What's yours?” he asks, and Louis tries to not to, but ends up laughing out loud, to his face. He’s sober, still. This is Harry’s impact only.

“Are we five, love?” he asks, a dumb smile still all over his face. Harry is trying to frown back at him, but he’s smiling too much to look serious. “I don't know, haven't thought about that in recent times.”

“Heeeeeyyy,” he protests, still smiling.

“But I'd say red,” he concedes, shifting closer to him.

Harry snorts, using his free hand to move his hair from his face. “Of course it's red.”

Oh well. Louis is intrigued now. “Why?”

Harry raises his eyebrows at him, like he’s ready to spur out a deep analysis about him and rip him to shred on everything he has learnt about him, but the waiter is back with their orders, so they untangle their hands and thank him.

They cheer to nothing in particular, and Louis darts a look to Harry, above the rim of his pint, as to say _I’m still waiting_.

“Well,” Harry starts, wincing for the whiskey. “You're bold, and... Emotional? As in, full of emotions, right?” Louis nods a confirmation to him. “And, _so _passionate about your things. So yeah, red is totally your colour. It’s something you can _see_,” he says in a confident, conspiracy tone, that reminds Louis so much of Lottie when she’s talking about zodiac signs. Wow, he’s going to see her _tomorrow_. His Lottie.

“Okay, thanks lad,” he replies instantly, to distract himself from the pang in his heart. He has the precise sensation that Harry gets a little more confused each time Louis calls him _lad_, which, _understandable_, but more often than not he does it with the panicky-cortex-part of his brain. “What's your favourite reptile, then?” he asks a moment after, to throw him off.

Harry stills with his glass mid-air. “Whaaat?”

“I was liking this, c’mon,” he spurs him, drinking again. “What's your favourite reptile, what's your favourite season, that kind of thing, you know what I mean?”

“Oh, okay, I...” Harry lingers a second, putting his drink on the table, concentrated expression settled on. “I have no idea, wait, let me think.” Louis adores how serious he had taken the question. “Mmmh… iguanas?” he offers after a pause, with apologetic eyes, like he’s not even sure if iguanas are reptiles.

Louis throws his head back, laughing. “That reminds me, Ernie had such a salamander phase last year, it was so odd.” He rests his head on the backrest of the booth, a breath away from Harry, still a laugh in his words. “I think it was because he was told they can resist fire? I don’t know, but it was so weird, one day he was just like, _"I'm gonna talk about salamanders all the time"_, and he did! Absolute legend,” he comments, pride shining through his tone.

His little one, his only brother. He misses him so much, he misses all of them in different shades, in different moments, for different reasons. Right now he’s thinking about him, about how hard it was to explain that he was moving a little farther away than London, that no, he wasn’t going to be able to see him next weekend, and the following one either.

_At Christmas I’ll be home, alright lad? _He had said, but Ernie still looked so lost about the whole situation. God, if he’s still into salamanders by the time he will be back, they are going straight to the zoo together.

“What's yours, then?” Louis turns to him, blinking rapidly. “Reptile, I mean,” Harry adds, when Louis doesn’t give him an answer. He has a soft smile on, like he may have seen through him for those moments where he was thinking about his brother.

Even thinking about it, he has no answer to that. “I've no idea, darling.” Snakes are too obvious and lizards don’t do much, not enough to deserve that spot.

Harry rests his head on the backrest, too, so near him. Louis has never seen this shirt he has on, it’s so glittery and _loud_, just as he is. The reflection of the glitter dances on his face, and Louis had never met anyone like him before.

“What do you like, though?” He says quietly, and in a second the atmosphere around them changes. They’re suddenly so close, and the pub is not so chaotic anymore. There are just them in their corner, on their cloud, away from the rest of the world.

“Mh?” Louis inquires, turning to him, because he’s not understanding what Harry is asking.

“You're always talking about your siblings, which is lovely! Really,” he backpedals instantly, when he sees Louis starting to frown. “But sometimes I feel like I know more about them than about you. I mean, of course I don’t, but… I wanna know more about you. What do _you_ like?”

Louis is puzzled, and moves his pint to a hand to the other. He thinks back at how Harry had said _"I don't know you as much as I want"_ and wonders, _does he really not talk about himself?_ At all? It doesn’t sound right to him, not possible, but Harry is still looking at him in wonder.

“... Like, in general?” He tries. This question feels so big, so broad and vague, to him. What does he like? Apart from his job and his siblings, he has no idea. Not anymore.

“Yeah.” Harry shrugs and drinks again. “What do you enjoy? What do you like? I wanna know everything. Tell me everything, come on.” He’s grinning, and he’s so lovely Louis agrees instantly to that, to then realise he has absolutely nothing to say.

“I-” he pauses again. _I actually haven't thought about what I enjoy recently_. “Mmmh, football?” he proposes when he feels his pauses have gotten ridiculous.

Thankfully Harry doesn’t laugh or rolls his eyes, just nods and says: “Yeah, I figured that. You have a lot of…” he gestures his chest and Louis follows the movement with his eyes, curious. He has his Cedric Diggory jumper on. “Sports jackets. And, you're British,” he adds, like that would explain everything.

“Atta boy,” Louis smiles at him, and goes to drink again, sure that the inquiry is over.

But, “Go on,” is what Harry says next, still curled next to him, staring at him with reverent eyes, so he has no choice but to rest his glass near his lips and lets his gaze wander around the rest of the pub.

Louis stares in the void a bit more. The world, in front of them, had started spinning again. They’re surrounded by loud groups of friends cheering and joking, a few couples here and there. Almost all the voices he can hear are talking in English, and it makes his heart aches.

This could nearly be a pub from home, but he would have no Harry on his side and no pain in his chest, there. He’s still trying to figure out if the two things weight each other out.

Louis knows what he likes, more or less, but everything seems so _lame _to him right now, anything he could say either obvious or boring, and he would love to show a new, shining side of himself to Harry, but he’s scared he had lost all of those, or they had faded away in the years. He’s so scared he has nothing new and fresh to propose to someone as sparkly and _fresh_ as him.

He wasn’t always like this. He looks to Harry again, who had drunk a good half of his drink, and his still waiting, swaying his head a little bit, like he’s listening to his own private tune. _He’s so weird_, Louis thinks half of the times he looks at him, and it makes him always melt in a puddle of fond. He’s so far gone for this boy.

He’s sure Harry didn’t ask that to put him on spot, neither he wanted something complicated or depressing, so Louis, with uncertainty, starts listing everything that comes to his mind, no matter how boring it may seem.

There are some aspects of his job, like being able to make talented people’s dreams a reality; there’s his family, but… But can see that Harry is still waiting for something more. Something deeper, something more personal, something he doesn’t already know.

It's odd, being listened to. Between his colleagues not really minding his creative inputs, all of his friends so far from him and so tangled in their own lives, the complete, devoted attention Harry always pays to him is bewildering to the point of feeling overwhelming, sometimes.

So, slowly, he gets more into it, more into the details, and starts listing off more personal things. Once he gets the hang of it, more comes to mind, bonding with each other and carry some stories with them: how he always loved music festivals and his first time to Leeds, that ended up with mud everywhere and his tent collapsing for the too much rain; how he stopped label things as _guilty pleasures _like he used to, but how Abba and musicals in general were always the first ones on that list, and, to follow, how he was Danny Zuko in his high school production of _Grease_; how much sleep he loses to watch real crime documentaries, and how that led him to be more and more curious about human psyche, to the point where he promised himself to go back to Uni and get a Psychology degree, somewhere in the future.

Harry listens to him carefully, drinks up every word Louis pronounces, like Louis is some witty, intelligent person who deserves this kind of dedication. Louis has some moments where he wonders how genuine that can be, and if it is, is he really worth all of that? He sees too much sadness in himself, by now, and can’t imagine appearing _that _interesting.

Or maybe it’s the result of Harry not being used to kindness by the person who should provide for him the most, but it’s such a sad, complex topic, he can’t think about that now. Not when Harry laughs at all his dumb stories with that sparkle in his eyes, the one that says how happy he really is, not when their drinks are over and they’re both buzzing with a sweet tipsy confusion; not when they’re smashed together, piling up in a tangle of arms and legs and warms hugs, and Louis had hidden his face in the crook of Harry’s neck, countless times already; not when Louis knows that with a couple of more beers he wouldn’t be able to say where one ends and the other begins.

Louis asks for another round, to only after realising Harry is going to get drunk a lot faster than him, if he continues with his whiskey and Louis with his pints, but, alas, the new glasses are in front of them too quickly for him to say anything. For some reason it makes him laugh, even if it’s not funny at all. Harry laughs with him, and it’s so obvious that it is for the alcohol but also because they’re finally back to have no resentment towards each other, and they both just want to enjoy this night the best they can.

“I like flowers,” Louis declares after a good third of his second beer, feeling warm and fuzzy in his chest.

Harry at that he straightens his back, taken aback. “You like flowers? Really?” He’s far too surprised for Louis’ taste. Of course he likes flowers, who doesn’t?

“Sure, why? I love flowers,” he reiterates, feelings as confused as Harry looks. He hasn't thought about flowers in a minute, but his flat in London always had fresh flowers, which was ridiculous and frankly way too expensive for his and David’s pockets, but absolutely nothing made him as happy as having those colourful, sensible creatures in his home.

In his _house_. Goddam-

“I don't know, you don't give that kind of vibe?” Harry, outside his frustration, still seems not convinced about the whole situation. He’s drinking this one slower than the first one, _thank god_, but he will be drunk pretty soon, nevertheless, going off from how slowly he’s blinking, and how often he has looked at Louis’ mouth rather than his eyes in the past minutes.

A _vibe?_ Do you have to give a _vibe_ to like flowers? One of the most precious things on earth? He’s not understanding what Harry is saying, at all. How can anyone not like flowers, Louis wonders again.

Maybe it's because he's tipsy, but he ends up saying, bold: “You're saying, just girly guys like flowers and I don't look like one of them?” it’s a bit absurd, to word that as an accuse, but he really can’t think about any other reason for Harry’s lack of conviction. A _vibe_.

Harry blinks at him, like he's trying to compute what Louis just said. He's at his second whiskey, it's safe to say he's far more gone than him. He tilts his head, like he just realised what Louis said. “... Maybe?” He offers, but going off the recognition in his eyes, Louis will take that as a _yes. _To be precise, a _I never thought about it, but yes_.

That honestly makes Louis snorts. He would want to travel back in time to say to his 2011 self, _“someone one day will think you’re so manly that it will be weird you like flowers”, _just to see the chaos that it could ensure.

“That’s not a requirement to be able to like soft things, you know what I mean?” Harry nods, like he’s trying to get behind that. “I act tough only on the outside love, and only sometimes. I'm the biggest softie,” he confesses, and hopes Harry will understand how true that is.

He _is _the biggest softie, the one that for sure will cry at any romantic movie, at any big step any of his loved ones take, even at those animal videos he finds on Instagram. The one always trying to get in true contact with his emotions, trying to help his friends to do the same. Maybe it’s because his mom was such an honest, good woman, stern at the right times, that always taught him and his sisters to be kind and affectionate. Maybe it’s also growing up and being surrounded by basically only women.

Harry is smiling softly at his glass, looking down, and Louis shifts a bit to be even closer to him, pressing their warm bodies together and poking at his dimple. Harry puts his legs above Louis’ ones, and out of the blue, Louis thinks how much he would love to have a picnic with him, or visit the _Bloemenmarkt_ with him, and to put their favourite flowers together in his kitchen and-

And, he had met him less than a month ago. He should chill a little.

“And what flowers do you like, then?” Louis focuses back on him, and finds him with something so soft and tender in his eyes. Sometimes, he would just like to submerge, in those clear, beautiful eyes, and rest there, where nothing could ever touch him.

“I like lilies,” he replies, simply, playing with his hair.

“… Oh.” Harry sounds… disappointed.

“What?” he asks, curious. Maybe he doesn’t know what lilies are and he should google them or something-

“Lilies are so…” he frowns, trying to get the right word. “Commercial? They’re so commercial.”

Oh well. Louis _for sure_ didn’t expect this. He scoffs: “I said lilies, I could have said sunflowers-”

“-Hey, _you_ look a bit like a sunflower, _sunshine-_”

The eyeroll goes off by itself, there. “-Or roses. Those are the commercial ones, not _my_ lilies.”

“Heeeey.” Harry pouts behind his glass, his cheek resting on Louis’ hand. “I love roses.”

A soft, knowing smile blossom on his face. “Of course you do,” he murmurs, pulling a curl delicately.

“... As in?” Harry asks, amused.

“They're just like you.” Louis caresses his cheek. He’s so soft, his skin so pale.

Harry gasps, in a dramatic, exaggerated way. “So you’re saying I’m commercial, now?”

“No, no, they’re lovely.” Harry closes his mouth. “Just like you. You’re so lovely. And, everyone's favourite. So amiable. Always perfect.” Louis goes to put a curl behind one of his ears, but Harry lowers his head, staring down at his own lap.

Oh, he’s _blushing_. He’s blushing _hard_.

“See what I said? Lovely,” Louis continues, because maybe if he tampers Harry enough, he will see him spontaneously combust in a fire of dimples, hot skin and private smiles.

“_O mijn God_,” he’s muttering, and a moment later he’s pressing his lips to Louis’ ones, hard, and Louis can feel how warm he is even like this, the top of his cheeks squished to Harry’s ones.

And he can feel how sweet his lips are, too, mixed with the whiskey and his fierceness, and how Louis is having troubles kissing him back because he’s _smiling too much, _and that hasn’t happened in _years _and it’s such a sweet, intimate thing_, _he’s too far gone to mind anything else, the confusion around them, the alcohol in their systems.

Louis puts an arm around Harry, and it’s a bit fun, a bit inappropriate how they’re full making out in a pub, in a _corner booth _of all places like they’re teenagers; but they’re too happy and tipsy to care, or even to remember there are other people around them. All sounds are muffled out and the only things he can perceive are Harry’s lips on his own, how their stubble is tickling his skin, how he definitively has strawberry chapstick back on, how he would never want to stop this.

Harry moves away first, which is new, and stares at him hard in his eyes, eyebrows knitted, like he’s trying to telepathic communicate something to him. Louis doesn’t know if the rush of _everything will be alright _came straight from Harry’s brain to his own, but he’s going to accept it either way.

Harry is about to say something, Louis can see it in his serious eyes, but right before he opens his mouth he gets distracted by something, a passing figure right behind him, half hidden by his curls. He faintly hears Harry say that something, but all his concentration is fixed to a man on the other side of the pub, green shirt on and arms full of bottle crates.

Harry is about to repeat himself, but Louis is already calling out: “Niall?”

He can feel the energy changing from Harry as if it was a tangible aura around him: his frown and his confusion are _that _loud. Louis puts a hand on his leg, like an afterthought, but doesn’t look at him when he calls for the Irish man again.

He sees the man passing the crates to another one, in what seems the pub’s storage, and then turns around with a frown. And, _oh, _Louis didn’t expect this, but it’s Niall, it’s really him, and he waves an enthusiastic hand at him.

Niall stares at him one second more, frown very much still in place, and until now Louis hadn’t thought how weird this probably could be for the other man: would it looks like he’s stalking him around, for coming back to his pub? _Ohgodwhatishedoing, _they’ve met _once _and Louis came back to his pub with Harry as a _trophy_, and isn’t it a bit pathetic, how lonely he is? He won’t even remember him, he must speak with hundreds of people every day, what was he thinking-

Something must have snapped in Niall’s brain, because the spark of recognition lights up in his eyes, and he starts walking towards them with a smile on his face.

“What… Who…? I wanted to…” next to him, Harry is still confused, looking between him and the other man arriving to their table.

“I wanna introduce you to someone,” Louis explains, smacking a kiss on his cheek. Harry doesn’t look convinced, yet, but he’s mollified after the kiss.

Niall is in front of them a second after, face flushed by the hot air of the room and his heavy lifting, smile still in place. “Hey man! What’cha doin’ here?”

“Niall,” Louis repeats, still surprised by this turning of events. “No way, you’re here!”

“No way?” he laughs, a crease between his eyebrows. “I work here, man, what are _you_ doing here?” He repeats, shifting his eyes between the two. Louis has the solid suspect he doesn’t remember his name, but he doesn’t seem too weirded out to have found him there, so that’s good enough for him.

“Was trying to say one last _hello_ to you,” he explains. “Thought you weren't here tonight.”

As soon as those words are out of his mouth, Harry places his hand on his leg, up enough to be seen above the table. Louis turns to him, still smiling by the sweet surprise of having found the Irish man there, but what he sees is a profound scowl on Harry’s face, a serious one. He’s looking at Niall with murder in his narrowed eyes, head tilted down like he’s ready to attack him. It takes him so much by surprise he loses the first bit of Niall’s response:

“… but yeah, in the end I'm always here, I was in the back restocking the beer and whatnot…” his words lingers between them, and Louis focuses back at him. He has a curious spark in his eyes, and he’s pointily looking from Louis to Harry. “Is this...”

“He is!” Louis has never been this happy affirming something in his entire life. “Harry, love,” he adds, turning to Harry, who looks startled to be called out. He puts an arm around his shoulder and takes his hand, the one on his leg, and holds it tight. “I wanna introduce you to Niall, here. Good lad. He’s the one who told me to get my head out of me arse and get serious with you,” he adds, in a stage whisper.

Harry is… Harry still looks confused, like this interaction was happening too quickly for him. Louis can’t blame him: a second ago they were kissing and trying telepathy, and now he’s forced to meet a stranger. He flashes a polite smile to Niall, who extends his hand for Harry to shake.

“Some of us have to. Nice to meet you, Harry.” They drop their hands and Niall moves slightly closer to him. “Let me tell you about your boy, here… he was a mess,” he laughs, as if whatever went down between the two of them has been fun. Well, maybe for Niall it was: if Louis remembers correctly, he was desperately bored, that afternoon, and Louis’ misery was his highlight of the day.

“Hey,” Louis interjects, immediately, no heat in his voice, smile still in place.

“But I’m glad he found his common sense back. And to have brought you here!” Niall continues, without sparing a glance at Louis, still focused on Harry.

And Harry, well. He’s still confused by the whole situation, but he finally looks like he’s catching up with what happened and about who Niall is for Louis. He looks so genuinely relieved about it, that honestly Louis finds it a bit annoying, but he’s not keen on spoiling his own mood, so he drives the thought away and squeezes Harry’s shoulder instead.

“Oh,” Harry breaths, still looking between the two of them. “It's, uh, nice to meet you too? I didn't know about… any of this.”

If you ask Louis, he will tell you that Harry sounds a bit bitter, and that the crease in his forehead is still not completing smoothed out. Louis doesn’t really know how to comfort him, or about what in the specifics, but thankfully Niall is quicker than him, and continues joking.

“Some things are better kept between a drunken man and their bartender, trust me, mate. So, is he alright? He treats you well an’ all of that, yeah?”

Louis makes a point to not stare at Harry, but still sees how he’s starting to relax even more. He doesn’t respond, though.

_“Je kan me alles vertellen,” _Niall continues, and if Louis has to endure another conversation about him right in front of him in another language, he’ll flip a table or something else of the same magnitude.

“Hey,” he warns, but it only makes Harry smirk and add, to Niall: _“Kom later terug en ik zal het je vertellen.”_

“Oh, come on!” he exclaims, but he’s joking and he’s absolutely happy of this whole situation, because Harry is still sitting so close to him he’s half in his lap, Niall remembered him well enough to make fun of him, nobody is weirded out and it looks like Harry and Niall could get on well, which is far more than what Louis was wishing for, coming here.

“Learn the language and nobody will have convos in front of ya, mate,” Niall laughs, and Louis is having reminiscences of a couple of days ago, with the big difference that now is just playful banter and he’s tipsy and good.

Harry laughs as well, and says, in a confidant tone: _“Ik vind je al leuk.”_ To which Niall laughs even more and gives him a high five. Is… this for real? Is _he_ for real?

“Shall I leave ya alone, lads?” Louis mutters, unable to sound less annoyed than what he is. He’s _not_. He’s just tipsy and wants Harry all for himself, as it should be. He’s confident Harry thinks the same, right?

He pokes Harry’s cheek where the dimple should be, and sure enough it comes to life, accompanied by a squeal of glee by Louis. Leave him alone, can you see how _lovely _his boy is? He pokes at him again, and Harry does absolutely nothing to stop him or slow him down. Louis is far interested in this people-pleaser side of him, who knows if anything _fun _will come out of that.

Mh, okay. Back to the pub now.

Niall is still rolling his eyes at them. “I'm not stealing your man, don't worry.” And Louis would want to say _I’d like to see you try, _but the reality is that he probably won’t like that at all. “For sure not after what you said to me the other time.”

“Oh?” Harry voices, clearly interested, but Niall just gives him a look and continues:

“Anyway! How’s my pub treating ya?” He turns one and the empty chairs and sits down at their table and everything. Louis loves the kind of people who can’t find a problem in anything and are generally too confident to even stop and consider their actions. He would love to go back to be one of them, too.

“I mean, good,” Louis is already laughing again. Drinking is glorious. “That one's already half drunk, look at him,” he elbows Harry, who just pouts at both of them.

“Lou's going home tomorrow, so, I'm drinking to forget,” he whines, underlining the concept by taking a swing of whiskey. He's joking, but not really.

“Awww, love,” Louis coos. “Don’t be sad, I’ll be back in two weeks.” _Two weeks and I’ll be home, _rings in his ears, which is very weird and unprecedented, because it’s not like that, right? It’s the other way around: he’s going home _tomorrow_. Two weeks and he’ll be back just _here. _He shakes his head by himself, which doesn’t get any less weird the more he does it, and goes drinking again.

“You definitively need something stronger, too,” Niall notices, eyeing his pint with distaste, and Louis wants to fire back, _what kind of Irish are you?, _but settles to say:

“Oi, give me time! We've been here for a minute, ‘ve got all the time to get smashed.” His second beer is almost over, too, and this time around he will take something stronger. They have time. He doesn’t want to think about how he has to say goodbye to all of this in a matter of hours.

Niall raises his palm in mock defence and turns to Harry again.

“Soooo, he said he’ll back with the fam tomorrow, and what about you, Harry?”

“I, umh, same,” Harry starts, wiping one hand on his trousers. “I'll take the train on Monday, probably coming back for New Year’s Eve, but I don't know yet.” He looks a bit off about the question, and despite Louis’ detective skills probably not being the sharpest at the moment, he still wants to change subject. He squeezes his hand and turns to Niall.

“And you? You’ll be back in Ireland, too, I suppose?” Harry is holding his hand back, and his smiling softly at him, as to thank him to have shifted the attention away from him.

“Oh, no, no,” Niall laughs at the question like it’s an absurd one, like he’s on a joke he told no one about. “No chances I'm going back to Mullingar, not yet, me and my friend Lewis are having a trip to Berlin for these holidays, so, no home for us,” he explain, affable and cheerful.

Louis appreciates how Niall takes for granted that he knows what Mullingar is (his hometown, apparently), or who Lewis his (a friend, probably), and admires how he said what he said so carelessly, like choosing to spend _Christmas _away from his family is something completely normal for him to do. It probably is, given how chill he looks about it: he doesn't look sad at all and it very much sounds like he made this plan, and for sure Louis doesn't understand both of them.

He doesn’t understand how Harry will go to his family for a handful of days, just to be back on New Year’s Eve, when he has the possibility to spend weeks at his family’s, nor he gets how Niall didn’t even consider going back at all, but rather spending those days in a foreign city.

_I mean, _he considers, it doesn’t matter that they have the possibility and he doesn’t, they have no intention to spend more than they have to with their family and that’s simply it. Everyone’s different and he has to accept he doesn’t know that well both of these people sitting at his same table. He thinks back at the ways Niall said, _buy me a beer and I'll tell ya_, about why he left his hometown, and promises himself that that day will come soon. When he’ll fly back, if it won’t seem too creepy, they will hang out again: he would love to.

And Harry… well, for Harry, he hopes he can know him little by little, every day a bit more. There’s nothing he’d rather do than learning his quirks and habits, his routines, his love language, what he loves and what he despites, and learning how to be together for good. Nothing he’s rather no.

He wants to comment what Niall just said, but Harry is quicker than him, and all of three laughs at some kind of joke about finding families and the Berghain, and Louis’ head pulses in the best way possible, for the alcohol and the chaos around them, from laughing too hard and being too fond of the guy sitting next to him.

They take their third drink, trying to convince Niall to have a beer with them, their treat, but he keeps saying that he’s working, in theory, despite how he’s still sitting at their table. When the other waiter is back he hears him saying that and reminds him that he is needed in the back to sort out their supplies, and Niall has no other option than going back to his job.

Harry, on his behalf, looks far too concerned about the whole situation. “Did we keep you for too long? We’re s-”

“You haven't done anything, man,” Niall cuts him off, getting up and placing the chair back under the table. “I enjoyed chatting with ya. Hope I'll see ya again, okay?”

Louis can’t say if he means it or he’s just being polite with some costumers, but he’s lonely enough to say, immediately: “For sure!”

Harry, too, is nodding seriously: “Yeah, sure.”

Niall flashes at them one last grin and with that, he’s gone again, out of the back door. Louis and Harry remain both fixed on the void for a long second.

“So...” Harry starts.

“Yeah?” Louis turns to him, and his eyes are… flickering, like too many thoughts are passing behind them, and Harry is trying to scan them to get a better hold of them, but they’re too quick for him, in this condition.

“You had a drunken chat with him?” he settles on, at the end.

“One totally about you?” He reiterates, because certain things are best kept in mind. “Of course I did.”

Then, because he is aware that doesn’t explain much, he does a little recap for him about that afternoon he spent in his same pub, a few metres on their left, sitting at the counter and wailing his problems to a bored bartender. Harry has leaned on him, and this doesn’t look much different from how they would sit in one of their flats, and Louis kind of loves it.

“Oh. Okay,” Harry agrees at the end.

“Still weird?”

“I mean… A bit, yeah. But… we're here now, you know? So, ‘ts good.” Harry smiles up at him, and Louis can’t help it, and kisses him more.

They remain like that a bit more, chatting and laughing at nothing, until Louis’ call of nature gets too loud for him to ignore, and has to excuse himself to go to the toilets.

It’s a miracle he doesn’t fall face first at any points, because he as soon as he stands up he realises he’s way drunker than what he thought. He would have never imagined being twenty-six (nearly _twenty-seven_) would have been so tough. He manages to survive, though, and he gets to stumble back to his table after an indescribable amount of time. Sure enough, he’s too confused to be certain of the world around him, but he can see even from a distance that there’s someone talking with Harry, making him laugh, too.

He gets upset for the time it takes him to walk up a few feet more and realise that the guy is still Niall, and the two are fervidly still talking in Dutch.

“Heeey,” he drawls out, plopping down next to his boy. His _boy. _How lovely that sounds. “Talking about me?” he jokes.

“Of course,” Niall is ready to reply. Louis squints his eyes at him, and at how Harry his shrugging, and uh. He’s sincere. Okay, then. “But also, got you some shots on the house,” he continues, gesturing the three small glasses on the table, filled with amber liquid. Louis didn’t even see those. “This,” he affirms, pointing at the two of them. “Is something to celebrate.”

“Is it?” Louis muses, taking one of them. “So I guess you said nice stuff, yeah?” Next to him, Harry rolls his eyes, humoursly, and scoffs a _‘mind your business’ _that has no right to make them laugh as much as they do.

They drink it together, and whatever it is, is so good, too good to be drunk as a shot. As quick as Niall came back, he’s gone again, with cheerful wishes for both of them and just a hint of whining about how boring is working in the back of the pub instead of chatting with clients.

Louis and Harry are alone again, and Harry is absently smiling, like the whole world is spinning in his favour. He’s resting one hand on Louis’ hip, and Louis has no idea how that position can be comfortable with him, but he keeps resting his hand there and humming Christmas song, looking all around genuinely, truly _happy_.

So much, Louis can’t quite help blurting out a: “I was scared you’d hate this place,” and groaning immediately after, wishing he could keep some pathetic things to himself.

Harry just frowns. He’s so different from how Louis had seen him at Zayn’s celebration, when he was loud to the point of being almost annoying in the best way possible, definitely the centre of attention. Louis is too tipsy himself to deal with that, so he just goes to explain what he means: he tells Harry what he had thought before coming here, the fear of disappointment when Harry had given him so much more.

It’s a bit ridiculous to explain such things, when he rationally knows it makes no sense because Harry is a human as much as him, because Harry had let him seen his truest self, because even him sometimes is not at his best self.

And Harry surprises him once again when in the end says: “I felt like I had to do it, you know?” His eyes are clear, limitless. “I was exaggerating, too. I’m not living up to glam every second of my life, but I felt like I had to make you believe so.” He’s crunching ice, pensive. “I… sometimes, I still feel like I don’t measure up to people. Especially not you, not in the beginning, when we still didn’t know each other.”

Louis’ heart breaks a little at that and can see it so clearly, thinking about how he changed for him, while he was relaxing in his own flat. It’s heart-breaking, it’s not fair, and it’s so toxic.

“But I like this place,” he continues. “It feels authentic. I don’t have to fake anything, here, and you don’t have to, too.” He’s smiling again, touching Louis’ side, making him feel warm all over.

“You know what,” Louis gulps out, talking past the knot in his throat. “I’ll say, we both deserve each other and that’s it. No more need to be fake between us.”

Harry nods, but doesn’t look as convinced as Louis would wish he’d be. “I still have to unlearn that.” _That’s _interesting. Not what he said, but the word he used, _unlearn. _It sounds serious, clinic, even. “I mean, it’s still because of him, you know?” it’s painfully obvious how Harry hates saying his name, still. “Made me feel like we weren’t even. Felt like I had to be this idealised, perfect version of myself for him. For deserving to be with him. ‘Twas exhausting,” he shrugs.

_You did all this for him, and he still did that for you? _The more he hears about this man, the more he’s glad they probably will never meet. He would love to say something sweet, reassuring, but Harry doesn’t look shaken up or even upset: for once, the look in his eyes is a distant one, like whatever has happened, it’s in the past and there it will remain.

“Can I just say,” he starts, clumsy with his words and his hands, cupping his face to make him look in his eyes. “The more you talk about him, the more of an arsehole he becomes.”

Harry giggles like Louis was joking. “Oh, he totally was,” he’s quick to confirm. “Sometimes I feel dumb for not had seen that sooner, but, eh, it’s the past.” He ends, shrugging again.

Louis is _outraged _by that. “You're not dumb,” he almost exclaims. “He's a piece of shit, that's his problem. Should’ve remained a personal one, instead of… going around, being a twat to you.” Christ, what he did was so much more than being a twat, but it’s not like he can spell what happened to Harry himself, and it’s not the moment to do it.

Harry smiles again, and it’s almost infuriating, until he gives him a kiss on the cheek. “You're sweet.” And Louis frowns again, because he’s not, that’s basic decency. “And you talk a bit like Zee, too. But, I mean, yeah.” He giggles again, for reasons unknows this time. “I get that. He was shit, and I’m kinda glad I can say this now. I didn’t see it, you know? I couldn’t see it for the longest time.” And it’s too much, too painful to think how he felt deprived even of his right to be angry, when his person made him feel like this, like he was disposable. “But, yeah, in the end… he’s someone I will warn my daughter about. Or… my son, you know.” His eyes shine, suddenly, like he remembered something magical in this very instant. “Because, who knows! We can’t!” he half shouts, like there’s nothing merrier than the thought of not knowing who your children are going to end up dating.

Oh god, _kids. _It’s the very first time Harry has ever said a word about having kids, and Louis knows this because he has spent the last four years of his life perking up every time he caught David say it, he’s became properly obsessed, and knows for sure Harry never said a words about the topic before now.

He can’t help, he really can’t, when he launches himself onto him to kiss him, so sudden and rushed and happy for a second he thinks, _what if I break his nose, _but it doesn’t matter at all because Harry is as drunk and as happy as him, and they end up laughing like crazy in their stupid booth, and everything is alright.

“I think,” Harry breaths softly, right on Louis’ lips. “It’s time for us to get back.”

There’s a look in his eyes that Louis knows too well, the same look that it’s probably in his own eyes too. He bites his lip, nods once and gets out of their seat, ready to pay and call for a taxi.

At the counter he finds Niall there _again, _and teases him, laughing probably too much, about how he managed to escape his shift in the back _again. _Niall doesn’t even shrug, just grins, far too aware that with his accent and cheeky smile he’s holding the place in his hands, and they end up chatting a bit more, while the cashier is ringing up Louis.

Louis is a bit too gone to be sure of everything he says, but he still manages to ask for his number sounding more like a _lad _rather than a desperately lonely man in a crucial need for a friend.

Niall delivers, of course he does, and Louis walks back to his table still wobbly but feeling proud of himself, a name added in the contacts on his phone. The feeling of victory doesn’t last long though, because he finds Harry frozen on his seat, fury and betrayal both painted on his face.

“Did you give your phone number to Niall?” he accuses, before Louis can even sit back next to him. “I saw you,” he adds, like a justification, like to back up himself.

“Yeah, wanna keep in touch,” Louis agrees, oblivious to Harry’s accuse. He goes to play with Harry’s hair, but he doesn’t lean on his like he always does. “He's a great lad, yeah? Great lad.”

Harry widens his eyes. “I- what for?” his voice breaks.

And it’s a bit sad, a bit infuriating how fiercely jealous he is, how apparently the past hours, the past days still aren’t enough for him to certain that Louis would never want anyone else. And also, how can he be this insecure, where all of this is even coming from? He can get it, rationally, given what happened and all of that, but isn't this ridiculous? They've both spoken to Niall, Harry had seen how enthusiastic he was about having them together, he knows Louis had come to him for advice about Harry himself in the first place, so... What's this?

“Maybe I wanna have a friend. Is that a problem?” he bites, too forcefully for what he intended to, but he can’t help but think that part of Harry’s jealousy is also mistrust, and what more can he even do about that? How can convince Harry even more that nothing like that will ever happen? He just wants a friend. He doesn’t want to get back to how he felt before meeting Harry.

“No!” Harry exclaims instantly. “No, no, I'm- I'm sorry, sorry,” he keeps repeating, a bit too much, a bit too emphatic, and that's too something Louis wasn't expecting. The change of his tone, of his expression, of his energy is too sudden for him to understand.

They’re both so drunk, he suddenly realises, like in this moment of complete misunderstanding is the first time he stops to ponder how absolutely out of it they both are.

“Wha- Harry, love,” his hand is back in his hair, comforting. “Don't be, it’s okay. Umh… Here, look, I'll send it to you, too, okay?” He takes his phone out again and forwards the contact with Harry, showing him the process on the screen. “You two went along well, right? You could hang out these days I'm not here.” He puts his phone back on the table, between them, and looks at Harry again. He really didn’t expect him to see him with teary eyes.

He remembers what he said the other day, when they were screaming at each other: _I'm tired, and lonely as shit, too, you get that?, _and no, Louis didn’t get that, didn’t see that in him, too busy being fooled by the shiny version of himself he feeds others.

Harry kisses him again, abruptly, almost smacking him in the face. “You're the great one here,” he says, pulling away. “_En ik vind je zo leuk, zo veel,” _he adds, but it’s said with such a lovely voice Louis can’t find it in himself to feel left out. Left out from what, too: Harry’s there, real and exposed, just for him to see.

“Me too, love,” he agrees, despite not understanding what he has agreed to, because the fierce sincerity in Harry's eyes would be enough for him to follow him wherever he’d go.

They kiss again, and, moments later, they’re ready to go.

~*~

Louis is lost in an overwhelming whirl of touching, feeling, panting: suddenly, everything’s too hot around him, but it was cold just minutes, maybe even seconds before, and he doesn’t get when it has changed; Harry is all over him, and he is too, but can’t feel his hands enough to understand what he’s doing with those, and can’t get inside of his body enough to feel what Harry is doing with his ones.

It’s confusing in a way he doesn’t know if it’s lovely or not, because Harry’s lips on his neck are as real as they can be and Louis doesn’t want for them to move an inch, doesn’t want for anything to stop, but at the same time the fog around their moves feels dense, irremovable.

The dim lights in the flat are enough for Louis to manoeuvre them towards his bedroom, but even him can’t walk in a straight line while keep on kissing and being drunk off his arse all in once. He asks _’you alright?’ _more than once to Harry, who just grumble his consensus here and there. Louis can’t see his eyes, not even when he asks again and tries, as gently as his clumsy hands permit him, to push him away to check. He’s so far gone, and wants to be sure the other is on his same page: but Harry is stubbornly looking down at Louis’ neck, eyeing it like a prize, and sure enough he’s back at it as soon as Louis lets him do it.

His room is a mess of half-closed luggage and he has never cared less of anything in his whole life: Harry, _in front of, around, everywhere, _is solid, warm, real under his hands, his lips.

“God, baby,” escape his lips, his chest, and Harry, below his fingertips, completely melts.

They crush on the bed, and for more than a few moments Louis’ existence goes upside down, inside out, the bed seems to shift as if on a lonely boat in the stormy sea, and he has to stop, his head pounding too much. There’s something going off in his brain about that, annoying like a car alarm at 3am, but it’s not loud enough for him to hear or understand.

Harry waits for him to start something again, but never stops his nibbling, his touching, his little whines that are making Louis go crazy with want, need. They’re one on top of each other but there’s still too much space between them, he can still feel how their skin is separating them and he wants to cancel that, wants to melt into him.

Harry sits up a little on his heels and Louis knows that it’s because he wants to take his clothes off, but still doesn’t like that, and yanks him back on him. Harry makes a grimace, whining, but comply: and that’s when the alarm gets a bit louder. He somehow knows he had grabbed Harry too tightly, pulled at him too abruptly, and doesn’t like that at all, but he doesn’t know how to calibrate his force. He’s too drunk, his hands are too heavy, his dick is just shouting what he wants, and he doesn’t know how to listen to what Harry wants, too. And he doesn’t like that, he doesn’t want that.

He doesn’t know him at all, he remembers, not in this sense, to the least, and his tongue is too heavy to ask the things _he should ask_, words seem impossible to form.

“Harry,” he tries, but it comes out caught up, not assertive enough, and Harry takes it as an encouragement like before.

Louis makes them sit back up a little bit, his head still heavy and hazed, the alarm keeps going off, louder and louder. Harry goes sitting on his lap immediately, like he was waiting for that moment, and attacks his mouth again, leaving Louis light-headed.

Their hands are still travelling, exploring, and Louis has never felt better, and he hates knowing he still has to say something, no matter how good this feels. One hand that is not his, _he’s too confused to keep all of these hands on check,_ leaves his side and swift, light, keeps going down, until, with a precise, calculated flick, opens Louis’ fly.

And that’s when everything becomes too real, and Louis knows this is his last chance to say something.

“Harry,” he tries again, this time distancing himself from him and stopping his hand. His eyes can’t focus, and it takes a moment for recognising him: he’s still not looking at him but rather staring at his mouth, pure determination in his eyes. There’s some fun in there, too, but it seems drowned by his frown at why Louis is stopping him.

“Love, I'm drunk,” he says, moving his other hand under his chin, to tilt his face enough to look at him in the eyes.

“Yeah, me too,” he’s quick to reply, and he is not lying: his eyes are cloudy and he looks like he’s barely there. Oh, Louis _definitively _doesn’t like this. His other hand, the one that Louis is not holding, goes back to Louis’ jeans, not wasting a second.

Suddenly, Louis is _very_ uncomfortable, and the pure persistence in Harry’s expression and actions is making him confused, on top of everything else. Harry is gentle, patient. He gets that he’s horny, but he’s being so pushy now, and why he’s not even looking at him?

“Yeah but...” he takes his other hand, too, and this time Harry raises his head at him, puzzled. “That's why...” he starts again, but Harry is kissing his neck now. “Love,” he finally asserts, pushing him away as gently as possible. “We shouldn't. Not like this.”

Harry stops everything that is doing but remains firmly sitting on Louis’ lap. He’s finally looking at him, or rather, studying him: his narrowed eyes scan his face, and in a second he’s serious. Annoyed, even.

_“Dat zouden we niet moeten doen, of wil je me gewoon niet?” _he slurs out, painfully obvious of how intoxicated he is, too.

Louis stares back at him. One, two seconds pass. “What?” he has to ask, in the end.

Harry is looking down again. “Nothing.”

Louis gets _now _that he was talking in Dutch. “Love, I…” he tilts his head to meet his gaze, but Harry is pointily staring down, at Louis’ hand around his wrist. “I know it's my fault I don't know Dutch, I know, and I’m sorry, but… I have to understand you in a situation like this.” _You’re sitting on me, _he wants to add. _We were about to have sex and you don’t want to say how you’re feeling? You get that’s why we shouldn’t, right? _

He doesn’t say any of that. Never has been talking a harder experience.

_Ah, harder. What they’re both losing. _He would love to smack himself in the head.

Harry finally looks at him, but he’s frowning again. “Don't call me love,” he growls, with malice.

Louis instinctively recoils at that, but Harry is still in his lap and he can’t go that far from him. He gets what he just said after a second and, fucking hell. Is that the point now? Is Harry really going to be angry with him because he’s not giving him what he wants?

“Are you angry with me, now?” he replies in his same tone. “Because, if you are... That's kinda fucked up.” He didn't want to sound so foul-mouthed, but it truly is. He never had anyone showing so much disappointment over sex, and if he didn’t know Harry well enough he would even think it was kind of manipulative. Or maybe they’re both too drunk to be clear with each other, right now. “You can’t be disappointed with me just cos I showed some boundaries.”

Harry’s expression changes, and in a second passes from being assured and pissed to be apologetic and startled, even: his eyes widen out and he recoils out of Louis’ lap, no matter how Louis is still trying to hold him close.

“No, no, I'm not, I’m sorry, I-”

“L- _Harry_,” he corrects himself. Harry is bothered by something he can’t figure out, there's something not right here, between them, and that’s another clear sign they shouldn’t do anything. Louis is too drunk and tired to try and read in Harry’s brain, right now. “I... Want to? Really, trust me, I do,” he coddles him, his thumb stroking his cheek, as gentle as he can. “But we're so... Drunk. Too much,” he tries to resonate. “And I don't want to have any firsts with you while we're like this, you get me, right?” they’re sitting close, but not touching anymore, apart from Louis’ gentle hand. Harry’s eyes are lost in the dark of the room. “I care about you too much to do it like this.”

Harry nods, pensive. He still looks lost and unsure. “Yeah,” he mumbles, in the end. “I- I mean, me too? And, I… get that, yeah. You’re right,” he mutters some other words out, of the same calibre, just affirmations here and there. Louis waits for him to say more, anything more.

Sure enough, after a tense silence, he starts again:

“It's just that... I…” he shakes his head out of Louis’ hand, and goes sitting with his feet on the floor, on the edge of the bed, giving his back to Louis. It happened too fast for Louis to comprehend. “It’s just that… I used to think sex was something sacred, you know?" he sighs out, like those are the heaviest word humanity would be capable of. Maybe they are.

“W- what?” is everything he manages to say after a pause. He would love to go sit next to him, to hold his hand and cuddle him, to show him that he’s there for him, but Harry wriggled out of his arms moments ago, and maybe the best thing Louis can do is giving him his space.

“Something... So pure, maybe? No, pure is not the right word, pure is such a… bad word, you know?” he continues, staring ahead, never looking back at him. “Something… important, yeah. Too important to… just have it with… whoever. I thought it wasn’t a… thing you could just share with anyone.”

The words remain hang between them. Louis is not understanding anything, his head pounding too much and now his beautiful, gentle boy is saying things too cryptic, too confused for him to get, and he’s so tragically drunk, he doesn’t know what is best for him to do.

He wants to ask, wants to know, because everything he wants is for Harry to trust him and to open up to him, but he’s drunk and exhausted, and everything that comes out of his mouth is: “Then what happened?”

And yeah, he’s curious, but he sounds alarmed, too, he knows he does: his heart is already in his throat thinking at the answer to that, but it seems something he needs to know, doesn’t it? Something he needs to understand.

Did he stop thinking that? And why, and when? After what other events? He’s completely changed, now?

But Harry just shakes his head to then holds it in his hands. That is almost enough for Louis to scrap all his _‘let’s give him space’ _and run to hug him again, to tell him that… what? He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t know what’s wrong. He doesn’t know what Harry is saying.

Soon enough, Harry gets up from the edge of the bed, on his wobbly feet. “I’m going to the toilet,” he announces, voice a whisper, and before Louis can do anything, he’s already out of the room, waddling slowly and helping himself with the wall.

“First door on the right!” he remembers to shout after him.

He hears the door closing with a soft _click, _and with that he’s back on his room alone, his lips and his neck bruised. His bed is half undone, but he’s alone. There’s a mess everywhere softly illuminated by the orange glow from the streetlamp.

He moves slowly to the side of the bed and sits there with his head in his hands. He’s twenty-six, too drunk to have sex and feeling comfortable about it, still with his fly undone and his socks on; there’s a guy in the toilet of his flat, as lost as he is.

It’s okay. Life could be worse.

He gets up, slowly, fixes his clothes and walks to the kitchen to grab a water bottle and two glasses for them. Maybe they should have some water and talk about what just happened. Knowing both of them, that won’t happen, but Louis at the moment is too tired to fight about it.

He stares at the cold water running from the tap, with one hand under the jet, hoping it will bring him back to the earth.

What just happened? What was Harry trying to say? He doesn’t understand him, that’s true, and it happens way too often to blame it on linguistics alone. But Harry is so puzzling sometimes, talking in riddles and looking at him like he’s trying to say, _read in my brain, please, and you’ll understand everything._

He returns to his room, placing the items on his bedside table. What did he mean with _sex is something you can’t share with anybody? _Was he saying that Louis is just anyone, and that’s why he was so ready and pushy, almost? To get it over with and moving on?

But no, it makes no sense with… anything else, really. So what? Was it the total opposite, maybe he meant that, maybe he still thinks sex is too important, maybe he thinks Louis is someone special, and that’s why he’s so distant, too, now?

What about, “_pure is such a bad word”? _It doesn’t sound as important as the rest, but for sure is something that surprised Louis.

Louis doesn’t know how much has passed, but knows that he wasn’t expecting Harry to come back to him with a much fresher-looking face, an amused smile on his face and his hair falling gracefully, like he had been styling it for a while. Like nothing at all had just happened between them.

“Are you going to like, Tibet?” he asks as soon as he’s withing ear distance, grabbing his water.

_What? “_What?”

“You packed a lot,” he observes, looking up from his glass. “Your luggage, near the door,” he explains when Louis keeps staring at him.

“Oh! The small one is for me. The other one is just gifts.” What did he say? They will ignore it. Of course they will.

Harry was putting the glass back on the table but stops with his hand mid-air. He turns with the goofiest smile Louis had seen on him. _“Wat?” _then, for some unknow reason, he starts giggling. For the same unknow reason, Louis does, too. They’re still drunk off their arses, after all, and it’s _late _and he’s starting to feel that sleepy-type-of-delirium that makes everything hilarious.

“I… listen, I don't know.” Harry sits next to him on the bed, and only minutes have passed form _before _but now they seem to come from different spaces, a dimension where Harry didn’t say anything too worrying. “You know when you see something and think, _‘hey that person would love this, and that other one this other thing’? _and so on?”

“… Yeah?” he’s ready to laugh again, Louis can read it in his eyes.

“... Okay, so, don't laugh, but... I don't know, I may have decided to buy everything?” sure enough, Harry starts laughing again, dropping his head on his shoulder. Such a simple gesture, considering what they were doing minutes ago; or maybe it’s special exactly because of that, and Louis feels butterflies in his stomach. “An overkill, I know,” he concedes, while Harry is still giggling.

Harry rises his head to look at him, his chin still leaned on Louis’ shoulder. “They would love you even if you come home empty handed, you know that, right?” he says gently, slowly, the alcohol still clearly present in his system.

Louis lands a kiss on his forehead. “You've never met Doris, then,” he muses. “Or the twins. They’re _teenagers.”_

“I haven’t,” he agrees, still coddled on him. “But I know enough about brotherly love.”

Louis wonders, not for the first time, how close he and his sister are; if _not much _or _not at all, _or maybe some other option he just can’t know about. “I'll cheers to that, then,” he raises his glass, now empty. He’s too far to go place it anywhere but would not move for anything in the world. “Hey, darling?” he asks, the _don’t call me love _still ringing in his brain. “Are we okay?”

Louis can feel him smiling onto his skin. “Yeah. We are.” He sits up straighter, looking at him in the eyes. “Thank you for stopping, really. I-, umh,” he shrugs, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he sighs. “But I know it’s better like this.”

“Will you tell me about it? Not now, it’s so late, now,” he amends, when Harry grimaces and avoids his eyes. “Just… will you? When you’ll feel like it?”

He smiles again. _Good. _“Of course.” And he’s soft, they’re alright, Louis will have to say goodbye to him in a few hours but they’re _good _now, they’re alright again. It’s okay. He can do this. He can leave him and this damned city if he knows things are good between them.

They talk a bit more, gently and slowly, the alcohol in their systems gradually leaving, until they’re more lucid but still too tired to do anything that’s not going to sleep right now. They finish their water and start preparing for the night, once that Louis does such a powerful yawn he’s afraid he had dislocated his jaw.

“We should go to sleep,” Louis mumbles, even if he has said this already a dozen of times. It’s not _tragically _late, but he has work in the morning and a flight in the afternoon. “Come here,” he invites, even though they’re both already lying in bed. He wants Harry a lot closer than this, as close as humanely possible.

Harry moves to him with closed eyes and an exaggerated pout. “I'm the little spoon,” he announces with a tone that doesn’t admit retorts, and turns around, ready to get hugged.

“Wouldn't have wanted any different, darling.” He slips an arm around him, his face resting in his curls.

It’s okay, they’re okay. He can do this, he can say goodbye tomorrow and fly to his home. He can’t even finish the thought that he’s already dreaming.

~*~

Louis dreams of being punched in the face right before waking up in pain.

He didn’t know the man who did it, but he was harassing someone who Louis couldn’t make out – just a dark figure with his head down, giving him his back – and he didn’t like that, so he went in the middle of the two and got a punch on the nose. Great.

The lonely boat is not at stormy sea anymore, he’s trapped in what feels like a washing machine, spinning with no mercy for him, seemingly settled in killing him.

Another arm comes in his direction, and he was sleeping a second before, he doesn’t know what’s happening and he’s not as sober as he though. It ends up hitting him again, but softer this time.

_Oh, _there was no stranger in a dark alleyway, this is reality, and Louis whines in confusion and betrayal. This is _his bed. _For sure he should be safe in his fucking bed. What the fuck is happening?

He grabs the mysterious arm, and attached to it there’s a person, and _oh, _that’s Harry, okay, he knows who that is, he can go back to sleep now. He puts his arm around him again, to hug him and keep on sleeping, but it takes him another moment to realise that Harry is shaking in his sleep, murmuring things he can't understand.

He pops on one elbow, trying to make out something, anything in the dark. When he can’t, he opens the windows near his bed with great difficulty: an orange light beam intrudes the room, to enlighten a scowling Harry with a contorted expression on his face, tossing and turning as if he was trying to escape from something.

Only then he understands through the alcohol cloud he has in his brain what is happening: it's a nightmare.

“Harry,” he calls, worried. Nothing.

He calls him again, louder, not sure of what to do, but when nothing happens again, he decides to shake him awake. He repeats his name, this time in a softer way, to give him something to grip on to when regaining consciousness.

It works, finally something snaps in Harry’s expression, and he opens his eyes.

“Harry, everything is okay,” he tries again, talking slowly. “It’s Louis. You’re at my flat.”

The Harry lying in bed next to him has glassy eyes and looks terribly lost. Louis is barely awake himself, a headache pounding him, but tries to convince himself that that’s not the point, not now, and keeps telling him sweet reassurance with his most soothing voice.

Harry is still too shaken and confused, but definitively not sleepy anymore, so Louis makes them sit up, propping him onto the wall, so to support himself. Once they’re sitting, Louis pulls the duvet on him, but Harry is still shaking, eyes empty, vacant.

He looks so much like that Saturday night, with the difference that Louis’ heart now aches a thousand times more. Now he knows what this is about, now he cares about him is such a softer, more intimate way to see him this scared. He was sleeping with _him, _wasn’t he supposed to be there for him? How can anyone _dare _to sneak into his bed to torture Harry, while he’s lying right next to him?

He keeps saying sweet nothings, but Harry is still not completely there, still shaking, and no matter how Louis is hugging him, feeling heavy and nauseous, he still hasn’t moved to reciprocate the hugs. The only thing he’s doing is passing his hands through his long hair, tugging it here and there.

“Okay, wait a second love,” he sighs, once he gets that Harry won’t stop trembling anytime soon. He catches himself, but the word _love _is already out of his mouth. Harry doesn't seem to mind anymore. He doesn’t seem to be there with him at all.

He moves gently out of Harry’s space, to go get him a sweater, but as soon as his arms leave Harry, he turns to him, grabbing his arm, frenzy in his eyes.

“Don't.” He looks at him, pleading. _Don't leave me,_ he's saying, desperate.

“Oh baby, I would never.” His heart is breaking. “I’m not, okay?” he gives him a kiss on the forehead and moves out again. “Just a second, okay? You're shaking. Lemme fetch you a sweater.” He knows Harry is not shaking from the cold, but it will still make him feel better.

Harry lets him go then, unsure, like Louis could pop out of the room and not come back again. He just springs to his wardrobe, instead, a few feet away: he has packed his best, cosy at-home-stuff yet, and that is ready to go, folded in his luggage. He had left his snuggest, softest maroon sweater out, though, planning to wear it on the plane, but Harry is way more important than any flight he will take.

He hands it to Harry, who puts it on and then crashes on Louis again, squeezing him. Louis would offer him a chamomile, but doubts Harry would let him go, now. They wiggle bit, until Harry is set in the v of Louis’ legs, with him petting his hair.

_You don't have to tell me anything,_ he wants to say, when it really means _please, tell me what is happening with you, please, lemme try to help you, I don’t wanna see you like this ever again, I want you to be alright, how can I leave now, how am I supposed to take a flight and say goodbye? _and dozens of other things. Louis’ heart is going crazy with worry in his ribcage, but Harry is probably too out of it to notice.

Harry starts without his input, though.

“He made me cut my hair again,” he starts, voice barely a whisper.

Louis blinks in the dark, his adjusted vision enough to make out Harry’s tired eyes. “… What?” _Made me? Again?_ Oh god, what had happened here?

“He told me no one would have wanted me like that. Maybe he was right,” he continues, still oblivious of how Louis is starting to shake, too.

_No one would have wanted me, _it rings in the room, ugly. _Is that about before?_, Louis ponders, _because, if it is, that’s not fair,_ he thinks to justify himself. It never was about how much he wanted him, it was about not hurting each other. But that’s not the point, and Harry is still upset, terrified, shaking on him, so he shuts up and gives him space, hoping he will say something more.

“I don't know. I didn't want to do it, but he said that so often,” he starts again, sounding on the verge of tears. Louis hugs him tighter. “It took me two years to grew it out, but… it took me so many more to be confident enough to wear it. And, and, worst thing is, I told him that so many times, _I did,_” he stresses, as if he’s scared Louis won’t believe him. Somehow, it hurts more than the rest. “It wasn’t just hair for me, I told him, but I don't think he cared about that. Or, umh, about me.”

“Harry, baby,” he can’t help himself, his heart is breaking.

“But he kept saying I _could have been so gorgeous_, _if I just cut it,_ and I didn't want to disappoint him,” Harry continues as if he’s the only one in the room, staring pointily at the window in front of him. “Made me feel like not to be like he wanted me to be was such a vile thing. So, I…” he presses his hands on his face, breathing through his fingers, and Louis squeezes him, never stop murmuring _you’re alright, you’re with me, you’re lovely, he was wrong, you’re so lovely._

“So I did,” he concludes, and it was obvious, but it still punches Louis in the stomach. _His lovely boy. How could he, how dare he._ “And then, I showed him and he showered me in compliments, so much that I thought I could have been alright, maybe it wasn’t such a big deal as I made it out to be, maybe he was right and I was just too sensitive and that I could have listened to him from the start, but… but then I went back home and I cried for hours. This is love, I kept repeating to myself. I was so sure of it. I was so sure it was still my fault for being too touchy.”

His tone in monochromatic now, dull, and Louis knows he’s going from one extreme to the other, to be able to expel those nasty memories out of his without breaking down.

“It wasn’t.” Louis, on the other hand, is chocking on his own tears, but he’s too invested in Harry’s wellbeing to cry. That’s not his place, not now. “That’s not love. He was the one in the wrong, always. He made you… he made you do that. You could never be too… _touchy_ for that.” he fucking hates that word, he fucking hates this man without a face that made Harry feel always in the wrong just to have feelings different from his own.

Harry wriggles a bit in his arms, until he places his face on the right side on Louis’ neck. Their heartbeats align.

“That wasn't love, yeah. And… I know I sound so dramatic, and I know it’s just hair and it can grow more, but-”

“But it’s not about that,” Louis says with him, because if anything, he wants Harry to be sure that he’s on his side. He wants Harry to know that what this man did was wrong, that he will always be entitled to have his own feelings, that he can’t be wrong about how he feels, that his body is his choice, especially in a situation where his body represented so much more than just an aesthetic appearance.

“It’s not. It’s about everything else,” he agrees. “But, y’know, sometimes I still think that yeah, nothing happened. When I told you that, I wasn’t exactly lying.” And Louis would love to reassure him that he never even thought about it in that way, but doesn’t want to cut him off. “I don’t know, maybe he didn’t do anything, or maybe not something worth mentioning, and maybe I’m just whining, but…”

He doesn’t finish, as if he’s still not sure of it enough to say, _“but I know that’s not true, because I still have the scars of that, I still have nightmares, I still can’t trust people”, _and it’s fucking ruining Louis, that uncertainty of his, because so many months had passed and he still doesn’t believe he’s right in feeling betrayed, hurt, used.

“You’re not,” he chokes out, and if Harry can’t believe himself, Louis will make a show of how much he does. “He’s in the wrong, not you. Never you. He… he walked all over your trust and your self-esteem, love. _Something_ definitively happened, there,” _and it’s not just the cheating, _he wants to add but he doesn’t. Harry already knows that, he doesn’t need Louis to shove it down his throat. “And…” he pauses.

It’s weird. He had a similar chat with Lottie, once, because he was dating a dickhead that somehow made her think she needed to lose weight. Even if he talks a lot, Louis knows he would never hit anyone, no matter what they did, but that time he got dangerously close to it. He feels the same, now. Lottie and that scumbag broke up shortly after some other mean comment he had made, but looking at her sister’s sad face that sometimes still popped up at dinner weeks, _months_ after that happened, Louis knew the damage that dickhead had done wasn’t going to be mended soon.

Words cut deep and remain with you for far more than what you believe. Harry was with this faceless guy for a long, long time. The mess he had left wasn’t going to be fixed anytime soon, but Louis knows for certain he will be there with him for the whole journey.

“The standard of… _something _doesn’t have to be… tragic.” He doesn’t even want to think about that. In some terrifying moment, he had some _what ifs, _and he’s so fucking glad he can weed those out. “He made you believe you… weren’t enough for him,” it’s too hard to say, but the dark helps, the way they’re both talking to themselves, almost, helps. “He was the one who was supposed to look after you, not… made you doubt yourself. Made you feel like you had to change, and this much, for him. He… he gave you _nightmares.”_

And that, that almost breaks him, because Harry should feel safe now, like two nights ago, when they slept together in Harry’s bed and he made it through the night. Granted, it was fewer hours, they were sober, but still: they’re in his bed now. That fucker has no right to ruin Harry’s sleep while he’s _with Louis, _in his bed. Louis didn’t invite him here, there’s no space for him here. He doesn’t want him, he should leave Harry the fuck alone.

Harry hums in agreement. There’s silence. Then: “They… they’re constant, I’ve told you this, right?”

It’s not like he just read Louis’ mind and is trying to reassure him. It’s not. Louis refuses to believe they are already on that level. “Yeah.”

“It’s… so exhausting. I wake up that I’m more tired than the night before. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother to go to sleep,” he sighs again. He moves out of the crook of Louis’ neck to look at him in the eyes, and it’s the first time Louis can see them so clearly, since he woke up. He finally looks like he’s there, within his body. “I know it’s late and you have work in the morning but… Can I tell you more about him? Please? It’s… heavy, to carry around.”

Louis would give him anything, with no _pleases _required, so he nods at him. He remembers, faintly, as if it happened years ago, at how Harry ripped the label on his beer bottle, that night when Louis was so sad he could barely talk, and told him he wanted to share the weight of his sadness with him. He’s ready to return the favour.

He gives him a peck on the lips, as an encouragement. “Share this weight, go on.”

He moves to check his phone, and discovers that it’s just one hour and a half before his alarm. They’re both too awake to go back to sleep now, and it’s not worth it for just some minutes more. He will regret not sleeping more in a few hours, he knows, but listening to Harry is way more important.

Harry starts speaking softly, with many pauses and _umhs _and gaps, tired and drunk and talking in a language that’s not his about something difficult enough that would make him stutter in any other situation.

It is what Louis had imagined, with the bits Harry had shared before, only it’s way more heart-breaking to hear Harry himself saying all of that: how the other was older, a charmer, _a real doctor, _who won him over even if Harry used to hate him, at the beginning.

How he convinced Harry he needed to change so many things of himself, for the two of them to fit, because he was so smart and handsome that he made Harry constantly feel like he wasn’t worthy of him. Of how much Harry still has to _unlearn _that. And it wasn’t just his hair, it was his clothes, his attitudes, the way he naturally hit off with anyone: he was too possessive to let him be as bright as Harry had always been, and dimmed him down until he was exactly what he wanted him to be.

How the cheating arrived like an unfortunate news he was already waiting for, because he always did things that made Harry feel weird, like texts his exes sometimes, despite how many times Harry had told him that made him uncomfortable; and, above all, because the feeling of not being his priority, not being enough for him, had crept in and now Harry believed it as well.

And no matter how broken he was, they got back together, because he apologised enough and because Harry didn’t know what to do by himself anymore, without someone commanding him around. But it happened again. And again. And again. And sex stopped being something sacred for Harry, because no matter how the other said that what he did was just _meaningless_ sex and he was in love with him only, Harry started to feel he was being shared, too, without his permission, by people he would never meet.

And when he escaped to Amsterdam, too heart-broken to take it anymore, too shattered to remain in a town that couldn’t fit both of them, he found himself completely alone, in a city that promised him to be his saviour. He had a backpack in one hand and his Uni degree in the other, a number blocked on his phone and his mum and sister greeted only once, and he had decided that since sex had become something against him, he would flip the situation back in his favour by having the same _meaningless _sex as well, and with anyone who wanted him.

_Spoiler alert, _he says, and somehow he’s grinning, and Louis can’t believe him, except he can, and his soul is made of gold and steel. _It only made me feel worse and worse. Bodies became just… flesh. I’m a physiotherapist, can you understand how important is a body for me? When I say they’re sacred, I’m not exaggerating. _Louis probably can’t understand, in the same way Harry couldn’t understand why he nearly cried when his book got covered in mud; but for sure he knows that he wants to listen to Harry until he will learn why that is so sacred for _him_. 

But all this spiralling into madness was also the thing that made him take one tentative step in the right direction: meeting Zayn. Zayn, introverted like nobody he had ever met before, focused on his work, creative, silent and smart, but also the biggest, goofiest nerd he’s ever met, listened to him night after night. For sure he was annoyed that the guy he would have wanted to shag had revealed to be so _needy, _but he still gave him a bed and a shoulder to cry on, until Harry gave him enough pieces to picture what happened, and, _how can I say? He would scream back at me everything I would say to him, but in a rational, objective way, calling him the most awful names, even when I tried to defend him. It took me a bit, to shift the perspective, but he’s truly the reason why I got a piece of my brain back._

It’s goddamn awful to hear such a tragic, awful story, and to see the person he’d grow the fondest of in these past _years, plural, _with the shadows of his past clouding his eyes, but it’s also so clear how far he had come from that, how long the road he had walked already is. And Louis couldn’t feel prouder of him, and tells him so, that and so much more: everything he had thought of him from the beginning, how bright and wonderful he always appeared in his eyes, how he’s ready to support him in whatever direction he decides to go. He says that petting his hair - his beautiful, long hair that brushes past his jaw - kissing him all over his face, poking his dimples and his moles, caressing his waist and tracing his trait, like he’s something _sacred _as well. And he is.

And it’s good, in the end. They both talk a lot, moving in and out each other’s arms, looking, studying each other, the hours of the morning stretching out in a snipped of time make only for them, where nothing could ever touch them, where everything is everlasting.

In the end, they stay up all night talking, and watch the city slowly wake up together, still sitting on the bed. Harry follows Louis in the kitchen, where they prepare their tea and coffee together, elbow to elbow, still following their natural rhythms that somehow never overlap each other, never bother each other. They go back to bed, and have their breakfast sitting there with their legs crossed, uncaring of the crumbs _(“I’ll wash the sheets when I’ll be back, come on, let’s go back to bed”)._

“At what time is your flight?” Harry asks, nibbling his toast with blackberry jam. Louis misses blackcurrant _so _much.

“Six. In the afternoon,” he adds, even if it’s useless. Six in the morning already passed.

Harry nods. “I could take you there,” he offers, and he’s serious.

Louis tilts his head at him. _This guy. _“... How? With your bike?” he humours him, and the sole thought makes him smile.

“Sure, why not?” his eyes sparkle. Louis leans in to give him a berry kiss.

“Yeah sure, lemme just, you know,” he’s already laughing. “Hold all my luggage while you pedal.” He mimes the scene, of him holding on his bags, and they’re both laughing, exhausted. “We’d go so far.”

_“Of, je kunt al je spullen hier achterlaten,”_ Harry mutters when they’re done.

“Mh?”

“Nothing,” they both sighs. “But… yeah, I mean, I could maybe, I don't know, accompanying you to the airport, there’s a train, you know? If you wanted, I could-”

“Harry, love,” Louis cuts him off, confused. “You won't make it.”

“Mh?”

“It's Friday today. You have the shift in the afternoon today, yeah?” he half asks, starting to get unsure himself.

Harry smirks. “Oh wow, you remember my work schedule?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Shut up, it's just because-”

“I find it flattering, really,” he continues, with a hand on his heart.

Louis just grunts. The only thing he could add is _"that's the reason we met, don’t you remember? It was a Friday, so you had a free morning, and you fancied a walk around. Instead, you hit me, and here we are"_, but he guesses he would only make it worse for himself, so he keeps it quiet.

“Oh wait.” Harry seems to have just realised something, and his eyes are open wide. “This means we have to say goodbye now?” he asks, in a whisper, like he’s too afraid to hear the answer.

“I mean… yeah?” Louis is sure he has already told him so. Maybe he just forgot he had the afternoon shift? Suddenly, his leaving is so real. They just have a few minutes more, and that’s it. “In like... Half an hour? A bit more? I can arrive late,” he tries, but he knows there’s not much to make the situation any better.

Harry, on his behalf, looks absolutely crushed. Louis understands now that he didn’t expect it, and probably had totally different planes.

“I mean… think positive!” he tries. “At least you can go home and have a nap before going to work, yeah? I have to go in a bit, I’ll fell asleep on my desk for sure.”

Harry doesn’t look heartened by that. Louis scots a bit closer and hold his hand, sympathetic. It’s weird, but he doesn’t want to go either, right now.

“... Yeah. I guess I can,” he mumbles.

They finish their breakfast and way too quickly they’re washed and dressed, ready to go each one in their directions. Harry has a desperate shadow in his eyes, and stills on Louis’ door for far more than necessary. Louis doesn’t want to let go of him either. It’s way too much for so early in the morning, it’s way too much for the lack of sleep they had and the amount of alcohol and heart to heart conversation.

Harry kisses him when he puts his coat on, and then again after he gets his shoes on. He still has Louis' sweater on, but Louis tells him on his lips to keep it, and Harry kisses him again, gentler this time. He kisses him at every step they’re taking, and Louis is definitively late but nobody could care about that.

Harry seems to be kissing him out of agony, despair. They say goodbye and well wishes until they don’t have words anymore, in any language whatsoever.

“You're kissing me like you're never gonna see me again,” Louis tries to joke, but there’s a ghost in Harry’s eyes he definitively can’t read, one too serious to cheer up with cheap jokes.

Louis kisses Harry one last time, and watches him turning around and stepping down the condominium stairs. Watching him go, the ghost in his own eyes becomes more real, more tangible, and he can finally understand what he was trying to say.

Why is he letting him go? He should run after him and kiss him again, on the stairs, and then again, at the main door, and again, at the bus stop, and maybe he should just skip work altogether this morning, is it even that important? He should walk home with him, and they should take that nap together, and maybe then they could even pick things up from where they left them the night before, and-

With a sharp thud_, _the building’s main door gets closed. Harry is gone.

Louis goes around the rest of his day with an unexplainable knot in his throat.

~*~

That afternoon, Louis takes his luggage with him and goes to the airport: four hours later, he's finally at home, plopped on a sofa covered by his siblings, with too many un-read texts beeping on his phone, and the knot in his throat is still firmly there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Je kan me alles vertellen: You can tell me everything  
Kom later terug en ik zal het je vertellen: Come back later and I'll tell you  
Ik vind je al leuk: I like you already  
En ik vind je zo leuk, zo veel: I like you so much, so much  
Dat zouden we niet moeten doen, of wil je me gewoon niet?: We shouldn't do that, or you just don't want me?  
Of, je kunt al je spullen hier achterlaten: Or, you can leave all your stuff here  
************************  
I added the tag ‘mentions of past toxic relationship’ after writing this, I think it’s fitted for the situation. Also, sorry if I smut-baited you, but I think it's the thing that makes sense the most with the rest of the story and the characters. I truly hope I can post the next ones a bit quicker, I think I gained some of my momentum back *crosses fingers*  
Also Louis DOES love flowers, and it's probably something I care too much about since I have a whole tag for it [here](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/tagged/louis-loves-flowers). If you wanna tell me anything, [ my tumblr ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/) is here, [ the fic post ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/post/625001364010024960/amsterdam-with-you) is here as well, if you wanna share it, save it or anything else
> 
> Byeeee, I hope I’ll see you soon! Leave me a comment or anything if you liked this one xxx


	12. 22nd - 30th of December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It’s been an awfully long time, I know. I hope to find you all healthy and as good as you can be in these strange, strange times. Given the circumstances, I didn’t have the mind or the time to sit down and write for months, and I hope you will enjoy this, or to the very least it will distract you a bit from the outside world ♡  
Warnings for this one: mentions of agoraphobia and hospitals

The absurd thing of desiring something for months is that sometimes you forgot how what you wanted truly was in the first place, and you end up idealising things way out of their nature.

For example, right now Louis is wondering if his sisters had always taken so long to get ready in the bathroom, and why, for the life of him, he had completely forgotten about it until now.

He knocks on the door again, but no response comes from the other side. Sighing, he gets closer to the door: the water is still going. Phoebe is still under the shower and they will be late for Christmas’ lunch at their grandparents’. Peachy. The bathroom on the first floor is occupied as well, and he has nothing to do but going back to his room (the _ guest _ bedroom, not his, he doesn’t have a room that is _ his _in this house) and rearranging his stuff a bit while he waits.

In his stagnant sadness, he had completely idealised life back home, and he is starting to realise that now, while sitting alone, still, in a dull bedroom that has nothing that could be _ his_. He’s not that sad anymore, not as _ sad _ as he has been for months, he has to recognise it: the loud, perennial chatter in Mark’s house makes his heart sing, having his sisters around him all the time has been a balm for his soul, and he has seen his friends in the weekend and they’ve drunk and chatted and played footie and it has been _ good. _

What surprised him the most was going that back _ home _ and seeing everybody, to his family to his closest friends wasn’t something epic and dramatic, like he thought, but rather it acted out as something simple and natural. He expected tears, hours-long-hugs, but in reality everything was back to normal, _ as if he never left, _in a matter of minutes.

He loved it, he truly did, how the rhythms were back to was he was used to almost instantly, how it made him feel like even if he missed from home his place was still _ there, _in the midst of these amazing people. These amazing people who take honestly too long to shower, but he’ll get over it.

Going back to living with so many people is legitimately disorienting him. Of course he is used to coming back for Christmas and even for more in the summer, but it’s never been so long since last time he was here, and, more than anything else, any other time he didn’t leave the other place while feeling completely disrupt and desperate. He was used to feeling happy and that’s it, he was used to living with _ another person _ the rest of the time, too, while this time he left with an overwhelming bundle of _ what ifs _suspended over his head.

_ What if I forgot how to socialise, what if I forgot how my friends are like, what if I became too silent and introverted and we can’t connect anymore, what if what we had is just gone and I have to accept it, _ and so on and on.

Sure, he became _ quieter_, as Harry had said, in these months, and more introverted even, but he didn’t change into another completely different person, so he managed to connect back to his friends just fine. He was still a bit rusty with banter, having missed some events here and there, but nothing too tragic, nothing that some pints and footie couldn’t adjust.

His luggage is still open on the floor, a mess of clothes, shoes and poorly wrapped presents: he had placed some under the tree in the living room, and he has to bring these reminders with him to their grandparents’ house. He’s going to see the baby twins for the first time today. He could shed a tear just at the thought.

Raising his eyes from the floor, he’s met with plain motifs on the walls: so, he’s in the guest bedroom, which is _ fine, _ of course it is, it’s just that it’s… weird. Mark bought when Louis was already in Uni in Manchester, so it doesn’t have a room for him. It’s weird how for him _ home _is still his childhood house, the one he hasn’t lived in years, while this place it’s just… familiar. Cozy. Nice.

He never minded him, in all these years he happened to sleep there, but it’s bothering him now. It bothers him that it’s not his childhood bedroom, that it’s not a space that is completely _ his, _ but just a space that is going to be his while he remains here. It makes him feel like he’s just a random guest passing by, not part of his family as well; which is just plain ridiculous, he gets it. He never thought he could feel like that in his own _ home, _ but he spent too much time alone with his own head to just shake those thoughts away and expect himself to be back to how things were _ before. _

He doesn’t have a space that is completely _ his _here, and he doesn’t understand why he would want one. He spent months in solitude, wishing just to be back home, and now that he’s here, he feels so easily overwhelmed, and wishes he could go hide sometimes, even just for a little bit, in a space where no one could find him.

Weird, so, so weird. He couldn’t wait to be here again, and now he’s great, he really is, it’s just that sometimes he… Louis drives the thought away. He doesn’t want to be back in Amsterdam. He doesn’t want to be lonely and desperate again. But still, he can’t decipher what is pulling him to have those thoughts. The will of hiding, of isolating. He doesn’t understand it: that’s what he had tried to escape for months on ends, why did it follow him even here?

He just… he expected something else, from his return. He was hoping that that enthusiasm around him wouldn’t fade, at least not so quickly, that people would keep on being _ “oh my god, Louis is here, he’s back!” _ around him, while they quickly shifted to _ “Louis is here, of course he is: he belongs here”_, which is… lovely, but in another manner than the one he had hoped for.

Also, despite being in England for a total grand of _ four days _ already he still hasn’t seen Liam, and he can’t consider any of this properly _ home _without his best friend.

Now, thinking about Liam was hitting another nerve for Louis: Kai was still in the hospital, in Manchester, and he had no occasion to take a car or a train to go there and visit him. It broke his heart, made him feel like garbage all over again, but his nearer friends had planned so many things for them to do, and he visited his whole family, and then there was Christmas and, in general, a lot more than Louis had anticipated.

Liam had reassured him that it was fine, that Kai has been stable for days and would be ready to be discharged soon, that there was no reason for him to drive all that way when he _ hates _ to drive; _ “just wait for us to come to Wolverhampton, we’ll see each other there”. _

It reminded Louis way too much of that weird, heart-breaking conversation they had a couple of weeks earlier, and he had no idea of what to do with that feeling. Liam convincing him to not come, the situation _ not being about him, _too much confusion and desperation between the two of them to reach a common point. Louis doesn’t want that to happen again, he wants to see his best friend and his wonderful little family and being happy all together, and try to trick himself into thinking nothing had changed, they were still close and loving, that miles apart and months later they were still the best of friends.

But he can’t ignore that same best friend’s wishes and requests, so they just had some phone calls, some well wishes to the kid, the promise of seeing each other once they would arrive in Liam’s town, and that was it. With that, Louis was left once again with the lingering thought that maybe his friend simply didn’t _ want _him around.

He stops a second his rearranging to hear if Phoebe got out of the shower: nope, Ariana Grande is still on blast. Sighing, he decides to take his phone: he has a couple of Harry’s texts awaiting him.

_ A couple _ is a euphemism to say to the least: Harry hasn’t stopped texting him since _ Friday morning, _ when they said _ bye _for the last time, starting from the fact that he couldn’t find the bus stop, keeping on the entire day and the following ones, never discouraged by the fact that Louis hasn’t been replying to him that much.

Louis is _ overwhelmed, _okay. And even if he didn’t say so to anyone, he still felt justified in his own actions. But Harry kept on, undaunted, and right now he’s explaining him, despite him never asking, some complicated Dutch tradition that goes on Christmas day. Louis is half sure he’s making fun of him, but would never say explicitly so.

He scrolls up their chat and sees the first time he replied back to him since he came here, on the 23rd of December, after two days of radio silence on his behalf.

Louis had written, _ happy monthversary of you nearly killing me, _a dozen times, deleting and reformulating the same concept over and over, each time more convinced of how stupid he sounded. In the end, he felt tired of doubting himself, and sent one of the versions of the same message, feeling honestly a bit pathetic to send a text like that.

Harry’s reply, though, arrived quickly: just a _ you haven’t replying to me in two days just to say this out of the blue? _

His dry humour had made Louis genuinely laugh and silently praying he wasn’t really offended by Louis falling off the face of the earth without any advice. Reading the tone in texts was something he wasn’t good _at_ _all._

Louis had then replied, _ of course. Anniversary and such are very important for me. _

This time Harry’s reply took some time to arrive, and when it did it was a simple, _ are they? Good to know. _ And then, when Louis thought he couldn’t feel fonder of this guy, when the _ butterflies in his stomach _ couldn’t get any louder, Harry sent him a pic of some winter pansies with attached the caption, _ good monthversary to you too, then. _

Louis had smiled for the entire day, after that, so much that every person he came across that day had teased him for it, trying to get some words out of him, to discover what all of that was about. He couldn’t help it, his soul was dancing and that sparkle in his chest kept on growing; still, he shared next to nothing with his friends. He knows they would pry to get something, _ anything _ out of him, and with good intentions of course: his and David’s breakup was something that surprised everyone, and since Louis had moved to another country without much notice, to then cut off his contacts with the majority of them, they do worry. It’s natural. But for him, Harry remains something too good and intimate to share, so his friends just know there’s _ someone _ in Amsterdam, waiting for him, but absolutely nothing about _ swings _ and _ too many teas _ and _ hold me tight through the night. _

The morning after that, they had an even odder exchange of texts. Just:

_ Oi _

_ You know it’s my birthday today? _

**… was I supposed to?**

**Wait, on Christmas’ eve??**

_ Too right _

**Well then**

**It makes sense what can I say**

**:))**

_ Does it? _

Louis always liked well enough his birthday: there was always a big party, the atmosphere was magic, everyone was in a good spirit and _ on holiday_, most of the times it snowed, and against his best judgment even him liked the fairy lights.

**Of course.**

**You’re a gift to the world.**

**Happy birthday Lou**

Louis had dropped his phone on the bed, hiding his blush to no one, hands firm on his face. It took quite a bit to reply anything to Harry, who was waiting for him still online. Louis could picture him too well, smug face for having made him so flustered, satisfied with himself.

He didn’t have to imagine _ too much, _ since just moments later he found that Harry had sent him a selfie of him cheering with a cinnamon roll in hand, and the caption _ ‘seriously tho, the happiest of birthdays xxx call me later, if you want to’. _ He was beautiful and _ pretty _in the way Louis had learned how to see and know him: soft, cheeky, a happy glint in his eyes, some scruff on his cheeks and his cute bunny teeth full of display.

It took him a while to respond to _ that, _ some teasing here and there, and some promises of a phone call or some skype. He ended up not calling, not even that day, too busy with celebrations all around him. When he left Amsterdam he thought he would have no time whatsoever to keep up with Harry, that he would be too busy with his friends _ at all the times _to spend time on the phone, but truth is that he still misses him a whole damn much for that, and, surprisingly, he had so much more free time than he expected.

When he feels like he misses his hiding, the silence and the security he felt because nobody knew what he was doing, his brain always tips him, saying _ just admit you miss Harry, you miss him so much you would experience all of that again just to have met him. _

But it’s too much, isn’t it? It’s-

Ariana Grande stops. Louis sprints out of the bedroom, leaving his phone behind, just in time to see Phoebe getting out of the bathroom with her hair still wet. Oh, they’re going to be late _ for sure. _

“Nearly grew old waiting for ya, Phe,” he calls after her.

“You’re already old, don’t try it,” she replies, without even turning back. Okay then.

He gets inside the bathroom and sees the wall of the shower covered in hair.

_ Alright, _ he muses. _ I’m definitely home. _

~*~

The oh-so-long-waited happy news comes in such a rush that Louis has no time to wrap his head around it or organise something. He wakes up a couple of days later with exactly what he was waiting for: Liam in the night had texted him, saying, _ they’re discharging him!! _ And then, _ we’re coming to Wolverhampton! _ And then again, _ you’re invited whenever you want :) _

Everything is set for Louis to visit in the afternoon of the next day, so that’s why, when he decides to call him either way away, to hear a bit from him and finally seeing Kai in a familiar environment, he’s taken aback when Liam hangs up on his facetime call and re-calls on normal telephone. Even weirder when Louis picks up the call and hears his friend so glum and rueful.

“Hearing ya one would think things just went to shit, not the other way around,” he comments offhandedly, hoping to drag some words out of his friend. He sounds too gloomy and grey, and it’s so uncharacteristic of him, and even more, so uncharacteristic of a father who just had his son discharged from hospital.

Liam, though, doesn’t insult him, which was what Louis was going for. What Louis goes for the majority of the time, what cemented their friendship back when Liam was sure Louis hated his guts, while in reality he was just trying to get him out of his shell.

The problem back then was that Louis had no patience to calm down a second and understand Liam, he enjoyed teasing him way too much, but also he had no idea of how the other had experienced his time in middle and high school. Liam, on the other hand, was too used to have people mistreating him, and couldn’t see the difference between that and this other tiny, loud guy that for some bad twist of fate he had to accept as his roommate. It took Liam exploding after Louis had decided that putting _ glue _ in his _ snapback _could have been a respectable prank, for the two of them to fight for hours and to finally reach a middle ground.

Liam eventually came out of his shell, and Louis learned to appreciate and respect the other’s boundaries, and, eventually, to calm down his disruptive energy by turning them into something that resembled _ love _ and _ appreciation _a bit more.

But right now, there’s just a sigh down the line, accompanied by some rustling noise, like Liam is moving random objects just for having something to do. “I know, I’m just… I’m a bit off. What about you?”

It’s not the question that surprises him – Louis would _ love _ to talk about himself, he’s so overwhelmed to be here again that he _ has to _ share how he is feeling – it’s the complete change of tone to something chirpier: it’s because he knows Louis is getting worried about him and he doesn’t want to. _ Too damn bad, Li, _ he thinks. _ You tried to shake me off in Uni and you never really succeeded, so here we are still. _

“No Li, what about _you,” _he replies in a similar tone. One is not _just a bit off _in this situation. If Liam is still completely crushed, he would have any good reason to be so: Louis just wants his friend to be open with him. “Where’s Wonderboy in all this? Can’t hear him, wanted to say _hi, _at least,” he tries again. He doesn’t get why Liam didn’t want to show him his face, what was the purpose of that? Louis misses him. They are going to see each other tomorrow either way, yeah, but Louis still misses him and _he was just discharged from hospital_.

More silence on the other line, punctuated by some stammers, as Liam tries to work his way with words and answer to an honestly very simple question.

“He’s, umh… my parents, him and Meli went out. To like, celebrate. Think they’ll be out the entire day.” Liam finally gets his words out, and an uncomfortable silence falls between them.

See, that’s weird. If you didn’t know him at all, you would feel pretty confused by this situation, and rightfully so. Louis, on the other hand, is past being confused by some of Liam’s decision, having lived with the guy for years, and understands his actions even without an explanation.

That’s why a bad feeling starts creeping in his gut, why he stands up, ready to sprint; why he asks, while already dreading the answer: “And why didn’t you go out with them?”

He was hoping it was not the case, that Liam was just tired, but he replies in the same way he used to do when he was having a bad moment during Uni, when they were in their dorm and Louis couldn’t get him out of their room no matter how hard he tried.

“The world...” he stops and tries again: “The world is a bit too big today.”

_ Fuck. _ That was their code, their _ signal_. The bad feeling was right.

“Do you want me to swing by?” he asks immediately, and starts looking for the key of his dad’s car. He won’t need it: he’s having his post-lunch nap, for which Louis and his sisters always make fun of him, and there are bigger matters at hand.

Liam just sounds tired. “You can't just... swing by, Lou.” _ Exhausted, _more like.

“I can,” he protests. “I-”

“It's an hour and a half drive,” Liam cuts him off.

“And so what?” he asks, fiercely just enough. He had learnt Liam just won’t ask for help, so the only solution possible had always been, _ let me love you and don’t you dare complain, _until the other complied.

“And so, you hate driving,” he resonates.

“I do,” Louis agrees, because he absolutely does. “And so, _ what?” _ he repeats.

Liam, defeated or maybe too tired to argue, takes too much time to get out a, “... I don't know.”

“Do you _ want _ me to swing by?” Louis asks just to be completely sure, already in front of his house’s door, car’s key in his hand.

The answer, this time, take less time to arrive, but is said in an equally soft, dejected tone. “... Yeah.”

“That's it.” He opens the door and sprints to the car. “I'll be there in an hour, then.”

“Don't run too much and be here in an hour _ and a half_, please,” he reprehends him, dad tone in full force.

Louis rolls his eyes even if the other is not there to attend the scene. “Get a tea for when I'll arrive,” he reminds him, and shuts the car’s door closed.

Liam, as Louis anticipated, is looking tired and emaciated. He was hoping for him to look a bit less like he hadn’t sleep for a fortnight, but given that he truly _ hadn’t _sleep for a fortnight, his dark circles and bad shaven face were to be expected.

When he opens the door Louis refrain from his instinct to jump in his arms: instead, he remains where he is, feeling the tears stinging his eyes at the sight of his friend looking so _ exhausted_, but finally so _ real _ and _ in front of him, _and offers a weak: “Hug?”

Thankfully Liam is less ridiculous than he is, and scoops him in a tight embrace before he can even finish the syllable.

“Hiya, hi Li,” he tries to breathe out, face pressed on his shoulder, still on his friend’s landing. The familiar warmth of Liam's parents’ house gets mixed with the frosty wind from outside, and his tears are still firmly there, pooled in his eyes. Liam’s hugs feel just like they used to. He’s next to his best friend _ again. _

Too bad that his best friend decides that the first thing he’ll say to him, after months apart, has to be:

“It’s been one hour and a quarter,” he scolds in his hair. “What did I tell you?”

“Oh my god,” Louis pushes out of the embrace. “Sorry _ dad _.” He takes another good look at him and his tired face, at how his feet never left the inside of his house, and decides that a “Fucking hell,” and twisting his nipple are the best way to go about this.

Sure enough, Liam yelps in pain, swats his hand away and shrieks, “You fucking _ menace,” _with so much pathos Louis has to stop defending himself for a second because he’s laughing too hard.

“Stop being a dickhead from five minutes,” he continues, still laughing. “I drove here just for you!” _ Fuck, _ he’s back, he can finally just take a car and _ drive _ wherever he wants, visiting people. He’s finally back. He’s never going to get back in Amsterdam ever again, he’s never leaving his sibling and _ Liam _ever again.

“You fucking run,” Liam corrects him, and _ oh god, _ maybe he didn’t miss Liam as much as he believed, why is he always so fucking pedantic, _ Christ. _ “It’s not safe, and-”

Liam continues to add things to his imaginary list, and Louis keeps teasing him, still outside in the chilly December wind, his hair getting soggy in the humidity. Wow, nothing had changed, has it? Liam has the same old, cozy clothes on and he’s trying to father Louis, out of all people, and they’re back to bickering about _ nothing _after two minutes of getting back together.

“-Okay, whatever,” he cuts him off, once he can’t ignore how his limbs are ready to detach themselves off his frame. “Do you mind inviting me in? It’s fucking freezing outside,” he reminds Liam, who’s still protectively standing inside the house.

Liam widens his eyes. “I- ah, yes,” he offers, opening the door more and letting Louis in. Louis suspects he had half forgotten that he was leaving him outside, since he was still securely shielded by the doorframe. _ Dickhead. _

“I feel a bit ridiculous,” Liam announces once the main door is closed and it’s just the two of them in the familiar but empty house. “’feel like there’s no reason for… this.” He makes a random gesture at them, as to indicate how they’re standing inside, while out there they could celebrate with his family, out in the last rays of the winter sunshine.

Louis wants to bite at him again, to poke him and see a blink of his real friend: this frightened, anxious version of him has no right to try and swallow him, not after what he already went through. But he has also to recognise that this same version of him he has in front of himself is too powerful and controlling to scare away with some jokes, and so, if he has to choose a path, it must be a gentle, sympathetic one.

“You have all the reasons,” he starts with, taking off his jacket and his shoes. “Wanna make me some tea and tell me about those?” he gives him an encouraging smile, hoping that all the love he feels for him can shine through the clumsy twist of his eyebrows.

Some of his love must have arrived, because Liam finally smiles back at him, and tells him to follow him into the kitchen. Louis had imagined many times how it would feel like to see him again, and despite never having imagined something like this, he’s still so, so happy to finally be here again with him.

There’s a piece, a part of Uni Liam he can recognise: it’s the one with his eyes fixed low, the quiet voice, how he doesn’t respond to Louis’ banter like he had then learned to. And there’s pieces of Adult Liam, too, there, somewhere: how he listens to whatever bullshit Louis is saying, how, despite knowing Louis is doing all of this to cheer him up, he’s accepting it, instead of shaking him off and get better by himself.

Their tea is ready soon enough, and the two of them sit down there in the kitchen, feeling no need to move anywhere else. Liam has been saying some sentences here and there, scattered words and sporadic comments about the situation and his family. He has talked a lot about Kai: he was declared healthy, even though the doctors still haven't understood what happened to him, why there had been a relapse with him in the first place, which still makes them, all of them, anxious for the future. 

Now, with his steamy tea finally in front of him, he looks a bit readier to get into what Louis had asked him: how are _ you_. It's a miracle that Kai is alright, and now that he is out of the woods, what remains after him are his two exhausted, shattered parents. 

“I don't really know,” Liam starts with, and is so typical of him to say that: he knows about _ this _ better than anyone else, and still plays the part. Louis is never been sure about what that was: modesty is overkill, in these cases. “We're here, he's safe, so everything is alright, really, but... Those days weren't pretty at all.” He takes up his cup, passes it from hand to hand, and place it back on the table. Louis looks at him doing all of this in the cold afternoon light, and remain silent. “I thought they were after us, so this… I wasn’t prepared, not like I could’ve been of course, but…” he presses his lips and shakes his head. Now Louis thinks that maybe they should have gone to a sofa or something similar, because he wants nothing more than hug him, and he can't with the kitchen table dividing them. “I have to accept that there are things out of my power. And I’m not ready for that.”

Louis finds himself nodding at that: Liam has always enjoyed taking care of everyone, has always taken anyone’s problem on himself, as if he was the one who could cure any evil. Louis is similar in that, too, and that’s one of the reasons why they hit off so well in the end, when they stopped fighting each other. Louis gets that. If anything of that entity would happen to him, he would become mad, knowing he had no power over it.

“Me and Meli are working on our issues and we're trying to get better, you know?” a tired smile appears on his face. “But I know this scare won't go away anytime soon, and she… I told you, she wasn’t doing great.” As quickly as the smile arrived, it’s now gone. “I’m scared this will make her feel even worse in the long run, no matter how much we reconnected the days after.” He finally takes his first sip of tea and gets burned in the process. He mutters something, while Louis can’t even bring on himself to make fun of him for it, and continues. “I don't know why I didn't go out with them today, but I- I mean, _ we _ ,” he sighs. “ _ We _’ve been confined in that room for days, and the only times I’d left was to go back home and go there again, so I’ve spent, what, weeks? In these little spaces and now… I just felt like the world is too big, really.” His cup is on the table again, and Liam is spent.

“You used to get like that in Uni, too,” Louis offers, weakly. It’s the first thing he’s said since they sat down.

“Yeah. Not pretty days those, either,” he murmurs, sheepishly, like he’s admitting he did something shameful.

It makes Louis enraged, but in a tired way. He hates to think back to those _ not pretty days, _ where Liam wasn’t doing well at all and he had no idea how to help him. They were eighteen, and Louis was a hurricane of disruptive energy who was constantly exasperated with his roommate, because he found him _ boring. _

How was supposed to react when said roommate had days where he looked _ grey, inside out, _when he didn’t leave his room, when he was even more annoying, now, because anything Louis did bother him?

Well, for sure he wasn’t supposed to tell him, _ “what’s this, pal? Are you depressed or something?” _yeah, that wasn’t his finest moment. He make it up for him, though, when he went to the Uni counselor and took all their booklets about mental health, dropped them on Liam’s desk and forced them to have a conversation about it. Thinking back, it was definitely there that they started becoming friends for real.

What they found out, in the end, was that Liam had a mild form of _ agoraphobia_. _ This pain in the arse, _as once Liam called it (and Louis still laughs when he thinks about it), tends to overwhelm him when he had too much on his plate, when the rest of his life was trying to overwhelm him as well. The remedy for it varied based on what set it off, but usually was to resolve whatever was trying to overpower him, and then working on it. It’s going to work this time too; Louis is sure of it.

“They weren’t pretty at all,” Louis agrees. “But now you have her, yeah?” _ You have her, and she’s always going to be next to you. Unlike me. _“And Kai is good, he’s healthy now. And, and your parents are here, too!” he’s trying too hard to appear chip, but he knows that putting good energy out always works out well with him. “You don’t have to worry too much about this, or about him. They’re all here to help you too.”

He didn’t mean it in the boring, old way of _ you’ve got nothing to worry for_, but going off Liam’s grimace, he probably still took it that way.

“I know, I know... I feel a bit ridiculous, really,” he repeats, sounding exasperated with himself. He passes one hand across his face, tired eyes fixed on his tea.

“You're not ridiculous, stop saying that,” Louis loudly protests again.

“Yeah, easy for you to say,” he bites, bitter. “But it’s me who can’t even leave the fucking house. Maybe I should’ve just gone out and got over with it.”

“Yeah sure, you should have,” he sounds a bit bitter himself too now, but at least he succeeds in making Liam look at him. “Since when going outside when you’re _ like this _is the solution?” maybe it's not fair to jab at him like this, but if Liam genuinely thinks that, they must have very different memories of those times. Liam never got any better when he forced himself outside in one of those moments; if anything, it always made him worse.

Liam stares at him. His eyes look vacant; his brain was burnt in the last weeks, and for a second Louis worries of what it could have left of him behind. After a pause that felt way too long, he murmurs a, “Never. It never was.”

Louis went away and left his best friend to deal with the worst situation imaginable on his own, and he will never forgive himself for that. The least he can do, now, is to make him feel a bit better, a bit like none of this has ever been his fault.

“You know what?” Liam remains silent. “Maybe the world _ is _ a bit too big. Too much has happened. You're tired. Get yourself a break, big boy. You don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders.”

Liam looks down, but Louis can still see how he’s smiling now. Small progress.

“And maybe you can go out after the dark, yeah?” he proposes out of nowhere. That helped, some times. Others it was as useless as anything else, but you still have to give whatever you have a try, right? “It's cold as balls but there are less people. Or tomorrow. Or the day after,” he keeps on adding, gesturing with his hands to show how gifted with different opportunities he is. “It's the holidays, you deserve to rest for a bit,” he concludes, repeating what is the most important bit: he has all the time he wants to deal with this, and, even if implicitly, Louis is going to be there for him, this time around.

“Oh, okay, speaking of holidays.” Liam sits up straighter, a new light in his eyes.

Louis raises his eyebrows at that, curious for the complete change of tone. “Here we go-”

“Shush,” Liam warns him and wow, is he already feeling better? “What about the guy you told me about?”

Oh, _ that’s _what that was about. Louis blink once. Twice. Liam is still staring at him. A laugh bubbles up in his chest. “Sorry but where’s the connection there? You’re just talking out of your arse now.”

Liam rolls his eyes like Louis is the one behaving like a child. “The holidays, you’re here, he’s there,” he explains, as if Louis was being thick on purpose and it wasn’t just that Liam is just speaking nonsense. “So? Tell me about him?”

He remains there, a few feet in front of him, big brown eyes demanding an explanation out of him. Louis feels a tad too exposed under that gaze, under the awareness he hasn’t told Liam _ anything _ about Harry. Harry, the most important thing happened in a year or more, and _ so much more than that. _

He kind of doesn’t want to, but he gets that Liam was feeling too exposed and fragile, under all those reassurances Louis was giving him, and wants to shift the attention away from him. So, he lets him do it.

“Did I? Told you about a guy?” he wonders, getting comfier in his chair. “I don't think so.” He drinks a bit of his tea, and _ yes, _it’s perfect. Scorching hot, not too strong, just a splash of milk. Knowing how to make someone their tea is a love language, and he accepts no criticism on that.

Liam puffs, starting to get antsy. “You arse. Well, you didn't say much to begin with.” Silence. “So? Did it go somewhere? He's still a _ maybe _ thing or did he become a _ yes _thing?” he prompts him.

“You have _ such _a way with words, Payno,” Louis laughs behind his cup. Liam is getting distracted, this is everything he could ask for.

“That’s what you told me! Speak.”

He’s starting to sound more fed up, and while Louis is living for this and thinks about teasing him a bit more, he’s also smiling way too much already, and knows he can’t keep this up.

He places his cup on the table again. “He's a yes thing,” he beams, unable to stop smiling.

Liam stares at him for a second, wide eyes and open mouth. “You... You _arsehole,” _he roars, and throws him a lump of sugar.

Louis flies his arms in front of him, to defend himself. “Li, what the fuck?” he shrieks back. “What’s- How old are you??”

Liam has fire behind his eyes. “And you say it like this??” he questions, sounding truly offended by Louis’ behaviour.

_ What the fuck? _

“Surprise?” he tries. “Sorry, I was under the impression you had more pressing matters at hand,” he mocks, not even knowing if himself or his friend in front of him.

Who care about him and his stupid crush when Liam had legitimately so much more to worry about? That night, when everything was going well still, and Liam called him, he was so close to share what had happened. He had to learn way too fast that the world kept on spinning without him, that even if he was a selfish fuck who never called back because he was too busy drinking fancy alcohol, his friends still had their problems. It was just that they couldn’t rely on him, or even seek some comfort in him anymore.

Liam, in front of him, still too far away after all these past months, frowns. He’s not joking, too, that’s the thing: the scowl in his eyes, the fold between his eyebrows, the curl of his lips all indicate how serious he is right now, how serious he had just taken what Louis had said.

It makes Louis feel like he just said the wrong thing, and that’s wild: they're best friends, he never felt like he had to watch his words with him or repeat what he just said in his head to be sure he didn’t cross a line. But now he does. He went too far, missed too many things, events, turning points, and now he’s not sure he knows his best pal as much as he used to.

And it’s no one’s fault but his.

“Okay,” Liam says, getting closer to him and placing his cup on the table. “We have to talk about this later.”

Oh, so he _ is _ serious, there _ is _something serious to talk about, it’s not just Louis’ paranoia. The knot in Louis' chest gets bigger, more painful. They have to talk? About what? What did he say? What did he get wrong?

He’s starting to get lost in his head again, because when Liam continues he almost jumps.

“But right now, tell me everything, come on,” and he’s smiling again, like he didn’t just involuntarily nearly sent Louis in a spiral of pure anxiety. “I wanna know how you are, but I also wanna the hot gossip,” he stage-murmurs, and maybe Louis, too, needs someone to treat him too gently, with too many precautions.

Louis still feels uncertain, weird to share something so precious that feel can only be _ his _ and _ Harry’s_, but he wants Liam to feel better: it's the whole reason he's there with him, the whole reason he drove way too fast to get here. So, clumsy with his words, he starts telling the story.

There are things that he leaves aside, though, like how the first ten minutes they had were spent screaming and worrying Louis had got a concussion; the immeasurable sense of freedom he had on that swing in the sky, how it made everything clear and simple, almost, in a moment.

He spares some details of their fight, too, and of their reconciliation, because he can sense Liam’s eyes getting darker when he touches on those, and he still doesn’t understand why that is. And maybe, under all of his turmoil, he doesn’t even want to know.

They move to the living room, while Louis is speaking, and he asks more than once if Liam is _ even sure you want to know all of this? What if _ you _ tell _ me _ how you’re feeling? _But Liam is set in making him talk, so he continues, while the two go sit on the sofa. If Liam needs a distraction, he’s up to do anything he can to provide for one.

Once he gets that Liam will not let him go if he doesn’t give him all the details he’s asking for, his stream of consciousness flows easier, and Liam, too, feels more comfortable in teasing him and commenting everything he’s telling.

The only thing that makes him stop is when he asks if he can see a picture of him. Out of nowhere, it hits him that Harry is always taking pictures of everything, but he has never shown him any of them. Louis has never asked, though. He’s left to wonder if that means something more than the obvious.

Scrolling through his phone, he realise that the only photo he has of him is the birthday selfie he was sent some days ago. He lets Liam see it only because that man is a _ pest _for how persistent he is: the softness of that picture wasn’t something he wanted to share. Or maybe he’s so used to overthink anything, he has to make a problem out of anything.

Liam takes his phone from his hands eagerly, and, after studying the photo for a second or less, he squeals, happy: “But he's cute!”

“Of course he's cute,” Louis agrees instantly, baffled. “You think I let any jerk run over me with their bike?!”

Taking advantage of the element of surprise, he snatch his phone back from Liam’s hands. _ Bless. _

Liam lets him do it because he’s too busy staring at him with his eyes wide. A moment passes. “You let him do _ what.” _

“... _ Oh.” _

Oh, well. He was careful enough to not let that slip out, just for it to come out in a joke. Very on-brand, for him, he has to admit: that’s how he came out to the majority of his acquiescences at Uni, too.

It feels too intimate for someone else to know, okay. Even if Zayn for sure knows it as well, it's just that... Screaming to a stranger while sitting on the sidewalk and half crying over your book is a quick way to form a bond, he had discovered. It was something absurd, and he's so grateful such a story happened to them. It's only fair, the only way he could have met Harry that would have made sense.

And yeah, he wanted to keep it for himself, but judging how Liam is looking at him, with that sparkle in his eyes that awaits the ignition, that he remembers that being _ unknown _ and _ unknowable _isn’t the only goal to keep in life.

So he sighs and tells him that bit of the story, too. _ Yeah, it happened after I called you to bitch about the book, _ and _ yeah, literally one minute after, _ and _ yeah I know it’s ridiculous _ and _ okay, have a laugh at me, big boy. _

Liam is properly laughing by the end, open and unabashed just like Louis knows him: mouth open and eyes nearly closed. He’s not stopping either, he’s having too much fun in making fun of him.

“Tommo still has game, who would have thought,” he says when he finally calms down, jokingly drying some fake tears from his eyes.

“Never underestimate me, pal,” he mutters back, if anything glad to see his friend looking slightly more human than when he opened the door for him.

“You’re properly smitten, aren’t you?” he continues, but he’s not joking now: he’s looking at him with soft eyes, a veil of happiness and pride for him over his features. “It looks good on you. I’m happy for you, mate.” Louis feels a bit uncomfortable, but it’s all good, until Liam goes on, saying: “You know, after David… we all were a bit worried for you. But it seems like you found someone again, yeah?”

Liam is always so goddamn _ honest, _ and this is not the right time to think how well he would hit off with Harry, how Louis _ wishes _the two of them could meet and become friends, because suddenly, Louis is panicking. Badly.

“I'm not in love with him,” he blurts out, and knows immediately that wasn’t the right choice of words to use here. Sure enough, Liam laughs again.

“You're not doing any favours to yourself to talk like this,” he singsongs, looking like he knows exactly what’s up with Louis.

“Uh?”

“_ Of course _ you're not in love with him!” Louis doesn’t like how certain Liam is of it. How he said that as to mean, _ it would be impossible, ridiculous for you to be. _ Would it? “Why did you even bring that up? Why would you be? You've met him a month ago!”

“A month and a week,” he corrects. He doesn't even have the time to feel like an idiot because Liam's already shouting:

“You see! You keep doing this! What is your deal?”

“It's just that…” Liam is right, there's a deal there, somewhere, otherwise he wouldn't be so negative yet so protective of the situation. “Maybe I don't wanna be in love with him. Maybe I don't want for it to happen.”

The words re-echo in the room. They sound hollow, ugly, but the truth is that there's still some truth in them, and Louis hates that. He _ doesn’t want _that to happen, no matter if it already did or not, and the problem is there.

Liam, on his behalf, doesn't look surprised at all. “And why that is,” he asks, but he sounds like he already knows the answer – or rather, that he already knows how to go off by his answer.

It’s unsettling. Since he started to go to a therapist sometimes he would do this, and it makes Louis go mad. He feels scrutinized to be seen through those lenses. He never asked to be analysed, yet there they are.

He sits up and collects his thoughts. He feels like he had explained himself a thousands of times in the last days, always about the same things; and no matter how hard he tries, the other person never grasps his reasons in their entirety.

“Because, I- it’s what I’ve said already, right?” He already said this, they should be _ past this. _ Liam is his friend, he should know him, he should be on his side. “I can’t. My place is still here. I can’t leave, not like this.” he really can’t. No matter if he wants it, no matter how bad he wants it, even, he just can’t. “I have responsibilities here, I have my whole family, there are you and Kai, right? What would happen? I’d just move there and say _ bye _ to all of you? And then what? How can a single person be worth all of that?”

He can already feel some tears prickling up in his eyes, but he refuses to make them fall: there’s no reason to. Whatever he may have thought, seeing the life he had left behind served as a reminder that anything he could have in Amsterdam, he would have to say goodbye to it, sooner or later. Maybe he doesn’t want to fall in love with Harry, because he knows it would hurt even more, in the end, when he will have to depart from him.

He’s working up some desperation in saying this, but how can he not? He has his whole life here, yet somehow when he tries to explain it no one gets how important all of this is for him. Liam, to the very least, should be one of those.

_ Right Li? _He thinks, but Liam is looking even more serious than before, lips pressed in a thin line, furrowed brow and everything else.

“Okay,” he finally says, and it sounds business-like. “This is what we have to talk about.” he puts his empty cup by his side. He’s clearing the field between them, and he looks now too near, too direct, like he’s preparing for a battle against Louis.

The world gets colder. It may be too big for Liam, but for Louis right now is simply _ hostile. _He feels surrounded, and, instinctively, he gets his own claws out.

“You have something to say?” he asks, flat voice and shoulders raised. He knows he’s already more defensive, but even taking a deep breath his words came out like that. Cold. He closes in himself, too, crossing his arms and making himself smaller on the sofa.

Liam glares at him, and it looks like a warning. Louis curls in himself even more. “Do you remember that night when I called you, to say Kai was in the hospital?”

Louis blinks for the surprise. _ Oh. _Okay, he wasn’t expecting this. His tight grip over himself gets a bit looser. “Of course,” he whispers.

“And you said you wanted to come here, and you insisted even after I told you it was better for you to not come?” Liam continues, gently but steadily, towards a conclusion Louis can’t see.

How could he ever forget something like that? His universe exploded a little, that night. The bottom of the world slipped out. “Yeah,” it’s everything he croaks out.

“I told you I was too tired to explain myself back then.” Liam stops and bites his lip. The dark purple shadows under his eyes are menacing. “Honestly, I’m way too tired even now, but I guess I can talk about… all of that, since you’re here, and you keep on saying… things.” he speaks like every word is a physical pain for him to get out.

Two minutes ago Louis would have make fun of him again for his way with words, but right now he can only brace himself. Nothing of this sounds good. He has a knot in his stomach, and he wants to throw up a little.

“Okay, spit it, then.” He sounds so bitter.

Truth is, he’s scared. So scared Liam might tell him everything he has thought of himself these past weeks. Sure, he deserves it, but it would destroy him.

Liam nods, and gets more comfortable on the sofa, facing him more. He’s still looking down, and Louis wonders how much energy he has left until he will excuse himself and go take a nap.

“I started to get worried for you when you broke up with David,” he starts, and wow, that’s a very long route to take. Louis is so surprised he forgets to be terrified, for a second. “Even if I was expecting it, to be honest. You were perfect for each other, but your differences weren’t... overcomeable ones. More than that, I was worried for you when you started visiting us every weekend since Kai was born.”

“I thought you were glad to see me,” he chokes out, cutting him off: he already feeling the tears creeping up in his eyes. Has Liam been fed up with him for so long? He was sure they were best friends. Maybe the fog in his brain has been there for much longer than he had expected. He feels nauseous.

“Wha- Lou,” Liam looks at him, startled, a hint of worry in his eyes. “Of course I were. I was so happy you drove all that way, every weekend, when you hate driving as much as you do, just to be with us. Don’t be silly.” Pause. Louis would love to _ not be silly _and act like a normal human being, but right now the anxiety he has in his chest is louder than any hint of rationality. “And we had no idea what to do, you were a blessing to have around those first months,” Liam continues, and he’s sincere, but Louis still feels sick.

“I don’t understand, then.” What is Liam trying to say, then?

“It’s that… I knew you were gonna broke up with him, yeah? I could see how you looked at us and at Kai, and I always knew how much you wanted all of that. More than your relationship with him.” He’s soft-spoken, but that doesn’t make what he’s saying any better.

Louis is going to up sobbing right here, right now. Liam should know better than bring all of that up, when he knows, or at least he should know, how painful that still is for him. Leaving who he thought was _ the one _was painful enough. What is Liam trying to say, though, it’s still a mystery.

“It’s just that… you changed, even before the broke up.” Liam is biting his nails, and that’s uncommon. He’s as unsure as Louis feels. “You became so much more invested in people’s lives around you, you became… so worried for anyone except for yourself. And you always have been, yeah, but… you stopped seeing yourself, I think. Stopped caring about your own wellbeing.”

“I- what are you trying to say? That I became obsessed with you and your family? That I should back off?” It sounds absurd but what else is Liam saying, then? Louis’ heart is going to jump out of his chest. He feels sick.

Liam jerks his head up. His eyes are wide open.

“What? Of course not.” They remain still. “Lou, what the fuck?”

“_ You _ are saying-”

“I wasn’t done!” Louis’ wild expression must not change, because Liam become even more exasperated. “_ Christ. _ Do you really think I would say that? That I would think that?”

Louis remains silent. He’s too confused to reply anything. Liam, on the other end of the sofa, is shooked.

“Lou, for fuck sake,” he tries again. “What I want to say is just that…” he sighs. “You… you always took care of everyone. Of me in Uni, of us when we were told Kai had health problems, of all your siblings, always. It's your thing, we all know. You're the older brother and it's in your DNA to just act like this. What I want to say is that since your breake up, you… became more intense in that, and I don’t know why, I could just speculate but-”

“Do it, then,” he’s biting again. He doesn’t want to listen to Liam’s ramblings. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Liam doesn’t take the bait. Fucking therapy, he had became too good.

“That’s not the point of this,” he replies, too assure for Louis’ like. “I just mean that you were like that, and then you flew to Amsterdam with little to no notice, and we were all worried because _ who the fuck does something like that_, and even more, _ why the hell Louis is doing this, among anyone? _You get why we were all concerned, right? But you sounded so hopeful we just thought it was your restart.”

That was it was meant to be. Didn't go according to plan, though.

“And then everything else happened, because it was so clear there was something off in you, but you refused to share it with all of us. Your sisters were so worried about you, and... Listen, I don’t wanna make you feel guilty, but none of us had any grip on you anymore. At all.” He rubs his hands on his sweatpants. Louis wants to hug him, he wants Liam to hug him back. They’re supposed to be hugging, right now, not forcing his friend to give him a therapist session while he looks like a zombie. “What I mean is… maybe you realised you couldn't fix your own relationship-”

“Hey,” he protests, but he’s weak.

“Let me finish, you’ll yell at me later,” he quietens him, but he has already won. Louis doesn’t have the energy to fight him, and Liam doesn’t have the energy to have a fight at all.

_ Shit_, he came here to make him feeling better, not to use him for free advice. He’s a shit friend, but what’s new.

“You couldn’t fix what you had with David, so you focused completely on anyone else, you put all your energy on the people around you. You are the one that takes care of everyone, and when your relationship crumbled, you cling on anyone else’s. And you forgot about yourself. When I told you to not come earlier just for us, it was because I couldn't take a hand from you-

“You could, you could have-”

“Louis, for the love of god, shut up.” Liam never calls him _ Louis_. He closes his mouth. “He’s _ my _ son. _ I _ know how to take care of him. And I’m so grateful to have had your help when he was a few weeks old, but when I heard you insisting so much, it was clear you weren’t doing great either. And that maybe you wanted to take care of him so you could avoid taking care of yourself, because that’s kinda what you were doing in those weekends you used to spend with us.” He’s talking calmly, as if he’s just stating facts. All well-known things.

“And I was way too tired and worried for him to try and make you talk about your problems. Especially because I knew for certain you would have never say anything about yourself.” He looks at him, hard, and Louis knows he’s right. “Honestly, I’m way too tired even now, but you are my best friend, and you are finally here.” He passes a hand on his face, and _ what the fuck is Louis doing, _this should have gone the other way around.

“But, Lou, you haven’t said a single thing about how you feel since you broke up with your boyfriend of four year. Or _ about _ it. Louis, you would have married him,” he’s talking gently, but Louis is already crying. _ Fuck. _ Liam has no right to say certain things, he knows Louis is _ sensitive_. “See where I’m going with this? And considering you took off and went to another country, I think it makes sense that I’ve been worried for you for ages.”

“You don’t have to be,” Louis tries, and he knows he’s lying. He’s crying on Liam’s couch, for fuck’s sake. “I’m doing… okay,” he tries. “I admit, I’m not great, but I will come back, and everything will be alright, and-”

“But that’s the point!” Liam nearly yells. Louis jumps on his seat and shuts his mouth by instinct, curling up in himself. “Lou, fuck, _ this is the point.” _ He’s so frustrated, but Louis still doesn’t get him. “You don’t have to come back here to be great. I wish you could see your face while you talk about Harry, because you’ll understand in a second that you have your own chance to be great _ exactly _where you are. It’s not even all about him, or for whatever reason you didn’t talk about him,” he sends him a death glance. “It’s about giving yourself the chance to evolve at your own pace, in your own spaces. I know that life here is important for you, but you should ask yourself, is that worth the chance to kill your own happiness?”

Louis opens his mouth. He closes it. Nothing comes out.

He has nothing to say back, but even if he did, he’s currently too overwhelmed and confused, and above anything else he doesn’t want Liam to scream at him anymore.

“You wouldn’t have said all of that, even just one year ago. You wouldn’t have thrown away this possibility so quickly, and things were even worse with your family.” He doesn't say it, but it’s obvious he’s talking about his mum. Great. Another sob comes up, and he’ll just cry forever, here. Liam looks at him, sighs, and scots over to hug him. _ Fucking finally. _The warmth Liam always carries with him wraps him, and Louis stops sniffling to hug him back. The world rearranges itself on its axis.

“Everything I want is just for you to think about this, about how much you’ve changed,” Liam continues, softer than before. “And if, fears and anxiety aside, you’d feel any different, about staying there. Because all of us are here for you. Always. You could go to New Zealand, or to Mars, even,” an exhausted laugh bubbles up in Louis’ chest, and Liam looks over the moon for that. “You could go anywhere. We’d still be friends. And your sisters would still rely on you. This love is not the type to change. You should give yourself the possibility to be happy. You should have something just for you, for once.”

That sounds way too familiar. His heart hurts. “Liam, I-”

“You don’t have to tell me anything right now,” he cuts him off. “I mean, you can, but you don’t have to. Just for you know, I’m here for you. I’ll always be.”

Louis’ still half crying, too overwhelmed to think of a proper way to thank him for everything he has done for him, but rational enough to know he _ doesn’t have to _thank him to show his appreciation. There are too many things to say, but at the same time it’s all already clear: them hugging of the sofa, exhausted to the point of losing their walls and recognise each other again.

He’s too dizzy to think about anything, so he goes for the joke. “Liam, when you became so wise? Did you talk to your therapist about me?”

Liam looks a bit interdicted, but recovers soon. “Of course I did,” he concedes, rolling his eyes. “You have to share everything that pains you. And you're the biggest pain in the arse in my life.”

He pokes him in the ribs, and Louis yelps in pain. He goes to twist his nipple again, but he’s too slow, and Liam catches his hand mid-air. How romantic.

“You always know how to talk to boys,” he mutters, trying to yank his hand back and using his shoulder to hit him instead.

They end up fighting on the couch like a pair of five years old, uncaring of how goofy they must look. Somewhere in their shoulders-and-elbows brawl Louis’ tears dry up and Liam’s laugh gets more genuine, until, when they stop, they finally both look like humans.

Liam still has dark circles and skinny cheeks, but at least now the light behind his eyes is alight again.

“I’m sorry if I was a shitty friend,” and maybe this is not the moment, but Louis is too tired to carry that with him everywhere he goes.

Liam’s reply takes a couple of seconds to arrive. “What?” there’s a hint of a laughter, still, in his eyes, like he’s ready to joke it off.

Louis takes a deep breath. He had a lot of time to think about all of this. “Came here to make you feel better, not the opposite,” he starts, because that’s important, for him. “And, about everything you’ve told me and-”

“Louis. Listen,” Liam cuts him off instantly, getting nearer him again. Louis lets him do it, but for sure feels a bit offended. “You are my best friend, okay? A lot of shit happened to you in this last couple of years. Stuff that could have destroy many, but not you. Never you. Honestly?” he asks, and he has a sad smile on. “I don’t even know where I’d be without you, and without the example you’ve given me.” Louis opens his mouth to protest, because Liam would have been that great even without him, but his friend just sends him a look that makes him desist. “Lou, the worst thing I said was that you care too much about others. How’s that something that makes you a shitty friend?”

Louis can’t answer. It plays so different, in his own head. But then again, he had to recognise that so many things had become distorted, difficult to understand, in these months he was alone. Or maybe, as Liam has been suggesting, this all started so much longer ago. Maybe Liam is just trying to say that this is one of those things he got wrong.

“It’s not!” Liam exclaims, and oh, yeah, he didn’t say anything in the end. “And today, you drove just to be here with me. That- that’s already so much, you know that right?” Louis finally smiles back at him, and Liam is delighted. “We’re alright. You’re the best friend I could ever dream of.”

Well, that’s a bit too much. “You’re so cheesy,” he mumbles, happiness making him warm and fuzzy inside.

Liam’s eyes are soft. “Yeah. I am. And it’s because I want you to know that.” He stares at him a second more, then bolts on his feet, reaching for his phone left in the kitchen. “And I want you to stay for dinner. You’re in, yeah?” he calls from there. “I’ll text my parents and Meli, they’ll bring Kai.”

Yeah, Louis is in. 

~*~

Dinner with the Payne’s was lovely, of course, and catching up with Meli was even better. Louis had always adored her, always found her perfect to go with his best friend, and be finally able to see her after he had heard everything she’d been through was relieving, to the least.

Kai even recognized him, something Louis wasn’t even going to hope for, because let's be real, he’s not even one year old yet and last time Louis had held him was months ago. But all their facetiming must have had its benefits, because after some side glances and a bit of skepticism for him, Louis managed to make him laugh with some of his goofy faces, and even held him for a bit.

Yeah, he was alright; they were all alright.

So why, when Louis came back home that night, with his heart full of joy, he couldn’t stop thinking about what Liam said? About his own happiness, his own path, and how he’s not a shitty friend at all, apparently. He tossed and turned for hours, trying to find a solution for it all, but everything seemed to point in the same direction: _ trust your instincts _ and _ stop dividing the world in just good and just bad _ and _ call Harry _.

It reels in his mind, constantly, that ghost of, _ ‘give yourself a possibility’ _ and _ ‘we’ll be here for you, always’_. When he calls Harry, the morning after, he’s still in the midst of his confusion about it. He doesn’t even think about warning him beforehand, and goes straight for the FaceTime call.

His phone rings only twice, to then show Louis a white screen.

“Umh,” he hears. Harry’s voice is deep, hesitant. Louis didn’t realise how much he was missing his soothing voice, until he heard him again.

“Harry? Are you there?” Louis squints his eyes at the screen. What he sees looks like a ceiling. “I can’t see you.”

“I’m… Here. Didn’t expect you to videochat?” There’s some rumbling, and then Harry finally turns the screen to show himself: he’s in a purple robe, a simple shirt, and unexpectedly, a _ scrunchie_. Louis’ heart swells: how’s possible that he is _ that _sweet?

“I’m a bit, umh, _ déshabillé_,” he offers, still sounding unsure of the whole situation.

His beard is grow out, and for the first time Louis sees him with proper facial hair: he didn’t expect it, but he finds himself liking it a lot. He looks like a proper adult, despite the purple hoodie of the robe half on his head and the velvet scrunchie to match.

“Good morning, love,” he says, first thing first. He can see Harry’s blush on the screen even with the bad internet connection he has. “You’re cute,” he continues, sincerely. “You look like a sprout. Like the emoji,” he explains, mimicking it with his hand.

A genuine smile appears over Harry’s face. He settles the phone better on whatever surface he has, takes a seat back and now Louis can see him clearer.

“Thought you hated those. Weren’t they for kids only?” His eyes shine. Louis wishes he could kiss him, right now. On that stupid smart mouth of his.

“I’ve been surrounded by kids only for days by now, they won me over,” he defend himself, biting back a smile that gets the best of him as soon as Harry snorts.

Yeah, he missed him a whole lot. Was pretty stupid of him to ignore him so much, to not responds to his texts and to not organise properly for a chat. One minute into this conversation, and he already feels a glow sparking in his heart.

Harry is as happy as he is, of that he’s sure: the way he’s biting down his smile but his eyes are gleaming, the soft blush on his cheeks. Yeah, Louis missed him a lot.

“So,” Harry starts again, taking him back to reality. “How is it to be back home? Good, or even better than you thought?”

_ Cheeky. _

“It has been good, yeah, yeah,” he agrees easily. “Spent a lot of time with all my family and my friends and... Saw Liam and Kai again, that was nice.”

“Yeah? How is Kai?” he asks immediately.

Louis takes a moment to admire him, a soft smile blooming on his face. “He's good, yeah,” he murmurs, in a way they both know mean more than _ good. _ “Got six teeth now.”

“Six! A man!” Harry, on the screen, seems enthusiastic about the news.

“Yeah. He's alright, yeah. How are you?” _ Tell me everything, _ he wants to say. _ I’ve missed you too much. Please talk my ears off. _ “Have you seen... Lux?” He asks, tentatively. Lux sounds safer to ask about than anything else.

Thankfully he landed on perfectly safe ground: Harry lights up instantly, and in a second he’s closer to the screen, talking fast:

“Of course I have! Louis, _ Louis, _ ” he repeats, and Louis gets closer too, to show he’s all ears. “She's _ so _ grown up, and it's been just months, this is making me go completely crazy.”

“Babies grow too fast, yeah, that's true,” he agrees. “If I didn't see Kai through face time maybe I wouldn't even recognise him.”

He’s only half-joking, there. Seeing Kai with his curls shaved off was quite a shocking experience, but his sweet face was exactly the same.

_ I can't imagine how it is to have your own kids, and seeing them growing day by day, _ he almost says out loud, but refrains himself.

“Right?!” Harry seems quite happy to find approval in Louis’ words. “I’ve missed so much stuff, I’m always asking about the wrong friends, apparently she doesn’t like her friend Daan anymore, and… _ don’t laugh at me,_” he scolds, but Louis is giggling too much to mind him. “And her hair, Lou, her hair is so _ long _and she’s been telling me everything she's learning in school, and-”

“That's so sweet.”

“Yeah, it is, but…” Harry frowns. “But, you know, she has lost her interest in me after some days,” he admits, pouting.

“Has she? How dare her,” Louis tries to humour him, but he gets what he’s trying to say way too well.

“Yeah. I even learned how to make french braids, just for her.” He rolls his eyes, but Louis can see he’s genuinely bugged out for it. “I mean…” he crosses his arms over his knees, and rests his chin on them. “I missed her so much, I don't know what I was expecting, but I’ve been here for a week and now she's just like _ 'oh, ok, Harry is here', _ and then she turns to her tablet or something. I was hoping... I don't know what, just that she treated me still like a new thing,” his voice gets lower and lower, until he’s just mumbling.

Doesn't all of that sound familiar?

“Oh, darling,” Louis sighs, longing to hug him. He looks so disappointed, so many miles away. “I'm sorry to hear that. But she has missed you as much as you missed her, I know that for certain.” He smiles encouragingly when Harry looks up to him again. “It’s just that now she's more relaxed, because she knows you're still there for her.”

“Yeah?” A spark in his eyes is already back.

Louis repeats to him everything he has learned this past week: how it is all normal again for her, because it's normal for Harry to be there. It's not that she doesn't care, it's that _ things are now how they're supposed to be_.

Louis explains things, but doesn’t understand them. He doesn’t understand how despite things being now how they’re supposed to be, he still has a tug in his heart. He doesn’t understand why he felt so reassured, the second he heard Harry’s voice. He still can’t reconcile the two things in his brain: the fact that he had missed his family more than anything else, and now that he’s here he still doesn’t feel _ whole. _

His heart, instead, has that much clearer.

Harry listens to everything Louis says, interested, and looks a bit more heartened at the end.

“You're better than a new thing, you're her best friend, and that a stable thing,” Louis concludes. “And, I get you. Going back home was so different from what I thought for me too.”

“In worse or better?”

Louis takes the time to sigh. He said many times to himself how wonderful was to be back, but with Harry’s soft, honest eyes on him, for the first time he wants to admit the complete truth.

“I don't know. I really don't,” he repeats because it’s true. “It's like nothing has changed, as if I never left, like you said, but as the same time I missed so many important bits. And all my family and friends were happy to see me, sure, but... they all have so many things to do, yeah? All my sisters have exams in January, and the young twins don't live with us, all my friends have some kind of work to do, and just some of them live in Doncaster and…” he feels like such a downer, to talk about that instead of cherishing the fact that he’s with Harry now, instead of telling him about the good bits and listen him doing the same. He feels like he’s always pointing out the negative.

“It’s just that... I'm alone right now,” Louis sighs, shrugging. He wishes it wouldn’t bother him as much as it does. “Which, wasn't a thing I was expecting. Like, at all. I thought I'd be with someone all the time, but life goes on for everyone. I'm not a new thing, either,” he says with a sad smile.

Harry, in the bright rectangle that hosts his face, frowns.

There’s a pause.

“You know, I wasn’t expecting you to call,” he observes, at the end.

It’s like Harry just emptied a bucket of ice over him. “It's because I didn't reply to your texts some days ago?” Louis rushes to say. “Darling, I'm _ so _ sorry about that, I was so busy with visiting everyone and then-”

“No, no, that's fine. For real,” he repeats, smiling, and he looks sincere. “What I meant is that I was expecting you to be too busy with family stuff to waste time on a call with me, so-”

“Since when is talking to you _ wasting time_?” he has to interrupt him, before he can get away with that. _ What the fuck? _

Harry rolls his eyes, but smiles immediately after. He doesn’t look bothered at all. “I didn't mean that. Just that you'd be too busy to call me. That's all.” He gives a second to Louis to make that settles in, then continues: “I’m sorry you’re… feeling like this, even there. I was just saying, I was hoping you were feeling so happy that it slipped out of your mind to call me. That’s all.”

_ What the fuck, _Louis thinks again.

Harry is still smiling, but his eyes look empty, as if he was lying and trying to convince Louis of how unbothered he was.

“Well,” Louis starts, a bit startled. “I'm happy now. I’m happy to have called you. I really wanted to hear your voice, busy or not. I've missed you lots.”

Harry’s eyebrows jump up at that, a sincere smile filling up his eyes. 

“Have you,” he singsongs, cheeky.

“Don't be an arse,” Louis says, but he’s smiling, too. “Of course I did. Still do.”

Harry bites his lip. “Okay, me too,” he finally concedes to Louis.

“I don’t think there’s a point where I can be happy without talking to you,” he blurts out before he can bite the words down.

Harry widens his eyes, stunned. Oh, well. What is done is done.

“Not anymore,” he adds, because it’s true and because nothing good comes from holding your feeling so close to your chest that not even you can read them anymore.

Harry, sitting alone in a room Louis doesn’t recognise, still hasn’t said anything; he is blushing a whole lot, though.

“I… I mean, me too?” He babbles out, too giddy to bite back the huge smile on his face. “Was weird not… I mean, it’s just that…”

“Use you own words, love, come on,” Louis teases him, because gets Harry flustered so _ easily _and it’s the best thing Louis has discovered about him.

“Shut up,” he whines, smiling more than before. _ Oh, does he like this? _Louis licks his lip makes a point to remember it. “Was just trying to say that… I know it was just a month, but we spent so much time together and... Maybe I got used to that too soon so… I don’t know, it was weird to… not be able to be with you. Even if it’s being just a week. Yeah, that was it,” he mumbles, more and more confusing and gibberish as he goes on.

He’s still blushing, but he has a fold between his eyebrows that seems serious, and Louis realises that maybe he’s half-expecting Louis to make fun of him, despite Louis being the first one to have gone all mushy on him.

“Same for me love,” Louis says, and gets rewarded instantly with a blinding smile. “It’s been a long week, and not seeing you for sure had its role in it. And… You were right, you know?” Harry perks up. Louis still gets weird, seeing how pleased the other gets when he’s proven right, but he doesn’t want to make his idea of the situation looks worse than what is it. “I got too angry at Amsterdam. Thought it was the reason of all my misery and that I should have get away from there as soon as possible, but… I mean.” He gives Harry a sad smile; the other one looks quite confused at his rambling, but still keen on listening to him. “I still feel like that, and I’m _ here. _So, it’s not ‘Dam fault, and I should fix my stuff.”

Harry is nodding along his words now, serious. There’s a pause, and Louis finds in it the time to feel like a moron to have said all of that.

“Lou,” he starts, serious. “You… you can always talk to me. Always.”

“I… I know that,” and he doesn’t, not yet, but he can accept a hand when he sees one.

Harry frowns. How is possible that he can already read through his bullshit?

“I’m serious. I mean it. I just want you to know that... If you feel this down, and I know I'm not someone... _ as _ important in your life-”

Louis physically flinches. “Harry, don't say that.”

“No but really,” he cuts him off. He’s still serious, and Louis doesn’t like it. At all. He’s going to fix that, as well. “I know how much you have missed your family, your friends, your normality, and I get that it’s… weird, and difficult to get back and see all of them again. And it’s been different than what you had wished for so long, and I know I can't do anything about that, but I wanted to say... I still can be here for you, when you feel like this. If you want.”

_ If you want. _Hasn’t Louis made clear of how much he wants all of this?

“Harry, don't talk yourself down like this,” he repeats, more forcefully this time. “Of course I want to… talk to you and be with you. Of course. Always.” It still feels like swallowing sand, to say that and being this opened, but he’s learning that being vulnerable is the only thing that matters. “And I... I'm always so happy when we're together. You always make me feel…” _ At home_, he wants to say, but that's too much, it's too soon, and as special as Harry is, it's still so weird, so uncommon to say something as big as that. He's not used to it, he can’t wrap his head around it. “I'm always happy, when I'm with you. Always,” it’s how he decides to conclude whatever he was trying to say.

Harry smiles again, and it’s softer, more private, and the connection is too shit to let Louis see if his eyes are wet or not.

“I’m happy, too. Always, when I'm with you.” His words are so soft that, listening to him, Louis almost feels like he’s being kissed. Almost.

“Darling, you… You made me like Amsterdam again.” Harry barks out a laugh at that, and Louis knows how ridiculous it is, but it’s also something massive in his eyes. “No one could ever do something like that, you get it right? So, please, don’t talk about yourself like that, you…” he should just say it, shouldn’t he? Why would he want to keep it for himself? “You made me the happiest I’ve been in this past year, okay? I’m serious.”

“Oh.” His eyes sparkle and Louis is going to go to his house by feet just to kiss him again. “Yeah?”

“Stop fishing for compliments, you,” he teases, but he’s blushing as much as him.

They both laugh, but in a second Harry turns to serious again.

“Lou, last thing, I… I wanted to say that I feel lonely, too,” he admits it quietly, like loneliness it’s a Louis thing and he doesn’t want to steal it from him. It’s a bit sweet and a bit dumb, and Louis can still hear him screaming _ ‘I’m lonely as shit, too’. _“For sure it's different, for sure it's not as much,” and how can he know that? Sufferance is not a competition, Louis had learned; but he keeps his mouth shut and continues listening to him. “But I get how is it to miss your family and all your friends, and your city, and all of that, and I want you to know…” Harry bites his lip again, pausing for a moment. It’s too heavy for a morning conversation, for sure one that can’t end in a kiss or some cuddles. It’s nearly counterproductive to open up like this, when you can’t have the comfort you crave after it.

“We can be lonely together, alright?” He concludes, smile wobbly and pure sincerity in his eyes. “When you feel like this, you can always call me. I'll never be more far than ten minutes in bike from you.”

“I wish you were ten minutes in bike from here, now,” Louis says, and he means it. Harry widens his eyes, and Louis knows he got the right meaning of what he was trying to say.

It’s too much, it’s too early, but Louis is also tired of repeating those words over and over. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s right just like this.

This love sparked and alighted in the blink of an eye, and instead of being so scared of it he _ has to _recognise it as the blessing that it is.

They change topic after that, both feeling too exposed to continue rummaging through their feelings.

Harry asks Louis about his year's plans, and he repeats to him exactly what he said to Liam: he's going to Calvin's parents house in Manchester; Harry basically says what Liam told him too: they're gonna destroy their house. Louis agrees with that foreboding wholeheartedly.

Harry is happily chatting about his plans (going back to Amsterdam with Zayn and more friends), when he stops himself, so abruptly Louis thinks the line went dead.

“Is David gonna be there?” Is, instead, what he asks.

Louis blinks. Harry is still there, dead serious, waiting for his answer.

“What?” Is the best he can give him.

“David. Are you gonna see him? Is he invited to the party?” He looks too grave for Louis to even try and make it into a joke, but it still takes him a couple of moments to find his voice again.

“... The new year’s eve? No, he…” he stops again. Harry still looks murderous, awaiting his answer. Where does Louis even start with this? “Well, I fucking hope not,” he says sincerely. “Calvin is not even his friend. I mean we had a lot of friends in common, obviously, but-” Harry’s expression gets even darker, so Louis, even if he’s too surprised to word his thoughts clearly, backpedals. “Also he lives in London, and we're in Manchester, so…”

“Is it far?”

“I... Yeah? Manchester to London? It’s up in the north. Like, three hours drive.” This is too absurd. Why is Harry that angry, so suddenly? “Who the fuck would leave London to have new year's in Manchester anyway?” He tries to joke, and thankfully Harry’s face gets a little bit more open after that.

“Oh. Yeah, right. Good,” he murmurs to himself.

“Love, I-” Louis stops and sighs. Harry’s jealousy is something he can’t quite wrap his head around, and he had promised himself to be more understanding with him, but moments like this still… Shocked him, a bit. “I'm not gonna see him. Not a chance. England may be small but is not that small.” He offers him a wink, to which finally Harry smiles again. “And I don't wanna see him. I totally don’t. What for?”

Harry nods, still a trance of pensiveness in his features but reassured.

Louis doesn't really know how to comfort him, because this is something that goes beyond the two of them. “Don't... Worry?” He still tries. “There's no chance I’ll see him. No chance in hell. I don’t care for it, or for him.”

Harry finally smiles again, and it’s a wonderful sight of crinkles by his eyes and his bunny teeth poking through his lips. Louis wants to kiss him so badly.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I believe you.”

That still doesn’t sit well within Louis: it's not a question of belief, it's a question of trust. It’s to recognise how sincere he is, it's to say _ 'even if I were to see him, you have to understand nothing is gonna happen, not anymore'. _

But Louis doesn’t want to be the meticulous one about words, not at the end of their first chat since they said goodbye, so he reassures him another couple of times, before he gets called by the twins to assist them while they make a multi-layered-monster cake.

(_“I’m not allowed to touch anything,” _ he explains to Harry, while not even trying to look annoyed. _ “But they can’t turn on the oven without me, apparently, so I have to go.”_)

They say their last goodbyes, and this time Louis is serious when he says, _ I’ll call you back soon. _

He’s left alone with the curious though of how he had completely forgotten about David, before Harry brought him up. He used to not go a single day without thinking about him, about their years together, or to be reminded of him by anything, but now? He realises he hasn’t thought about him in weeks, maybe one could even say, _ one entire month. _

Seeing David again, at the new year’s eve party of all places. Wouldn’t that be absurd?

Shrugging off the obviousness of it, he gets out of his room, taking his phone with him, ready to send a copious amount of pics and videos of the monster cake to Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the next one will take less to arrive, but I can’t really promise you anything too concrete. This situation is a bit whatever, isn’t it? I know this chapter feels a bit like a filler, but the next two will have more action. Promise!  
If you wanna tell me anything at all, from a joke about your quarantine to a vent about your roommates, [ my tumblr ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/) is here and always open for anything, really. [ the fic post ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/post/625001364010024960/amsterdam-with-you) is here as well, if you wanna share it, save it or anything else  
I hope I’ll see you soon! Stay safe, all the love ♡♡♡  
Leave me a comment or anything if you liked this one xxx


	13. 31st of December - 1st of January

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … hi? Okay, it’s been I-don’t-even-know-how-long/don’t even wanna check and I’m so so sorry for it. Wayyy too many things happened, recently, both in my private life and around me in general to let me finish this work, and I appreciate your patience and love so much. Thank you for the 2k+ hits, I’m so grateful for everyone who decided to click on this fic and stick with it. Here’s the second to last chapter, hope you’re stocked for something about new year’s eve in June.  
Only warning: a looot of alcohol.

The place is already a mess when Louis arrives. He parks the car and gives himself a moment to look at the house in front of him. The mansion has always been a point of pride for Calvin's parents, with its cool garden and a terrace big enough to welcome all Calvin’s friends during any summer.

Now both spaces are full to the brim with a mob of people Louis doesn’t recognize, and he feels a bit sorry for how they are going to leave the house.

He gets out of the car, approaches the mob and in a second he already has a glass in his hand, given by someone he doesn't recognize in time, before they get lost in the crowd again. 

It's not even dinner time yet.

"So this is how it's gonna go, uh," he says to no one, and drinks the full glass in one go.

~*~

Hours later, Louis is already drunk and happy, dancing to old pop songs and engaging in ridiculous drinking games. The night is still young, and he’s having the time of his life, finally partying with his best friends just like when they were younger.

God, he’s so grateful he came back to England for the holidays, so grateful he got to have such a big, over the top celebration with all of his friends for new year’s eve. He’s so grateful he is here, with his _ people, _doing what they do best: making a mess, uncaring for the aftermath.

_ Yeah, _ he thinks to himself while taking in colorful shots and insulting his friends in the process, _ this night is gonna be the greatest. _

~*~

The first time it happens, he’s sure he’s imagining things. He has just finished a beer pong game (counting on the fact that after midnight they’ll have a straight vodka one) and sees a familiar silhouette in the crowd. Someone tall, broad, with dark hair and a dark shirt.

He’s not quick enough to pinpoint the image, and the person gets lost in the crowd a second after. He remains still, confused as to why a random shadow could have bothered him so much. It moved something inside him he couldn’t identify, but he has no time to think about it because Oli, beside him, gives him a side hug and drags him back to the table, ready for another round.

The silhouette is quickly forgotten, and Louis, while promising himself he will arrive at least conscious to midnight, throws another golf ball at the other side of the table, sadly missing any glasses. 

The second time it’s a spookier coincidence.

He’s not at the gaming table anymore, he’s lost in a thick mob of dancing, sweating people. He already has some sticky, colorful alcoholic beverage on one sleeve, but as long as his shoes are intact he won’t complain.

The booze buzzes in his brain, humming, swinging, and he doesn’t even like to dance, but he’s too drunk to remember that now. There's some 00’s hit on, and this shit is his _ jam, _and he can do nothing but throws his arms in the air, shouting the wrong lyrics and laughing to himself.

When the song is over and so is his drink he pushes out of the crowd to go have another round, it happens again.

It sends a shiver down his spine: there’s a voice, lost in dozens of others, that he recognises. He knows that low timbre, that accent and that rich voice.

He turns around, heart pounding, but he can’t see anything out of the ordinary: just people shouting, dancing, all poorly illuminated by colored lights. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for: he’s sure that whatever he thought it was, it can’t be possible, not now, not ever, for sure not here with him.

People keep on dancing, music keeps blasting from the speakers, and the world keeps on turning, oblivious to this one wary guy, scanning the crowd, looking for someone who he knows can’t be here.

Third time's the charm, it’s often said.

Louis is sure they don’t mean this, not when he stops dead in his tracks, because the person, the _ ghost _he was sure he was imagining, it’s real as fuck, laughing in front of him.

He just got out of the toilets, his mind less cloudy than what it has been for the past hour, and he’s ready to have another drinking game, or to find some of his buddies and see what they’re up to. Midnight is in about one hour, and he can’t believe it’s still this early. He missed partying for hours on end on New Year’s eve, and now he feels like he’s in his early 20’s again.

All his lightness gets knocked out of him, though, in the time he turns one corner, and finds himself a couple of feet distant from none other than David.

David is there, in front of him, laughing soundly like he’s ignoring he’s attending a party where he’s not invited, where no one wants him, where _ Louis _didn’t want to see him.

He’s just there, with his dark shirt and his dark hair (his beautiful, dark hair, Louis would spend hours running his fingers through it, would always compliment him on it, he-), and his laughter sounds just the same. The girl he’s laughing with has one hand over his forearm, and Louis hates how his first instinct, in all of this, is not to shout to him to get lost, to get out of his party, but it is going up to her and saying, _ ‘oh darling, but he’s gay, haven’t you seen?’ _.

Catullus once said _ difficile est longum subito deponere amorem_, and Louis hates how correct he was.

He doesn’t know for how long he was out of it, unmoving, staring at a couple of strangers: probably long enough for the girl to notice him and start looking pointedly at him, chin and eyebrows up, a clear _ ‘the fuck you want’ _ painted on her face. David turns to him, too, and for a second Louis holds everything he believes in, just in the hope it’s not really him, it’s just a scary coincidence with a dude with his same face (and crooked nose, and messy hair, and posture, and laugh, and, and, _ and- _).

But he turns around, too, and Louis could never mistake his dark eyes with anyone else’s, not when they land on him, not when as soon as it happens his arm falls down, making the girl lose his grip on him.

Not when, upon seeing him, he doesn’t look surprised, just apologetic. Like he knows that what he's been doing is wrong, _ this is not the place for him_, but didn't care about it, or about Louis, enough to have a damn new year's eve party elsewhere. 

He opens his mouth to say something, but Louis doesn’t have time for that: a new emotion starts boiling in his veins, and he can’t keep up with it while looking at the face of a man he would have given everything. Too bad he didn’t want it, right? Why the fuck is he here now, then. There's nothing left for him to take, here. 

He’s furious. What’s flowing in his veins now: it’s just pure rage.

He turns around and sprints out of the scene, with a new target in mind. Someone must have invited him, and he will find that someone, and some justice along with it.

The alcohol pounds in his temples, and he keeps stumbling, hitting walls and people, but he has a single purpose in mind, and he won’t stop until he gets to it. His hands shake in confusion and betrayal, and he can’t stop or he will lose it.

Calvin is slouching on a sofa when he finds him, and Louis doesn’t even stop to wonder if what he’s doing is worthy of a crazy man: he just grabs Calvin's arm and tugs him up, forcing him to stand and to follow him. Calvin is drunk enough to let Louis do all of this, not without protesting though.

“What the fuck,” he keeps saying, while Louis drags him in another room, one with fewer people. The music vibrates through the floors and their bodies, but it’s deadened by the walls around them. “Louis, wha- what?”

Louis lets him go, turning him around so he’s resting his shoulder to a wall. He’s trying to contain his rage, trying to not explode. The alcohol is tainting his brain. “Calvin.” His voice is shaking. “Why the fuck is David here?” he quivers, and he can’t contain himself. “Are you fucking crazy?”

“Dude,” Calvin moans, his hands on his face, not appreciating how strong Louis is questioning him. “What are… David who?”

Louis takes a step back. He’s not going to slap him, but _ holy fuck. _He forces himself to take a deep breath. 

“How wasted are you?” what a useless question. “David?” Still nothing. “Fuck, Cal, David, really? My ex of four years? Why is he here?"

Why he suddenly feels like he's about to cry? It's rage, still? What else does it have, boiling inside him? Maybe it’s how sure he got himself to believe he was over him, that he could have a long, happy life without him, just to see that vision breaking down in a couple of seconds.

How dare he, to laugh as if nothing had happened? To be here, in general? How dare Louis to be so shaken by him? This is not how anything was supposed to go.

“Ooooh, that David,” outside his clouded head, Calving is starting to remember things. “Umh, I... I didn't invite him.”

“_Fuck.” _The frustration is getting the best of him. He brings his hands over his face, but there’s nothing that can be done. Except for one thing. “I don't give a shit about that. Why is he here? I don’t wanna him here.” 

Calvin is getting annoyed as well. “Lad, I don't know, Jesus. I don't know half the people who are here.”

His house is full, that’s right. Louis has never seen so many people inside here, but there’s only one he cares for, so, not his problem.

“I don't care about why you have strangers in your home, I care about why _ he _ is here,” he retorts, trying to keep Calvin in place.

His friend, though, is resenting how Louis made him leave his friends to be yelled at, and is trying to escape the interrogation.

“Oh for fuck's sake, I just said I don't know!” His traits are distorted in the low lights. “I invited Fi, and Mary, maybe they brought him along! What can I do about that?” 

“Yeah? And how the fuck didn't you see him? Are you... Fuck,” the names Calvin said register in his mind. “Fuck, did you do this so I'd see him?” It sounds crazy, right, but there’s no way Calving didn’t imagine _ that, _and maybe it ties with everyone being oh-so-worried about him so far away, and-

“The universe doesn't go around you, dude. I invited Mary because Oli has been fancied her for ages. I didn't even know he was here.”

_ Oh. _So, no apprehension on his part. No great scheme to reunite the lost lovers or whatever kind of bullshit Louis created in a split of a second. He should be happier about that.

Calvin has raised back from where he was slouched, and is already moving out Louis’ radius.

“I don't wanna him here,” Louis calls again, but it sounds nearly pleading this time.

_ Please, _ is what he’s not saying. _ I don’t wanna be remembered of everything it could have been. Of everything that is never going to be. He can’t be here while I’m so drunk. It’s not fair. _

“Christ.” Maybe he said that out loud, maybe he didn't, but Calvin is back again near him. He still sounds irked, but with a touch of empathy for his paranoid friend, now. “Listen, I’m sorry he’s here. I bet that’s a fuss you’re not in the mood to deal with. But, lad, if he's not making a mess I'm not gonna throw him out. It's not even midnight yet. Let’s not make such a scene for nothing, okay?” He pats his back, absently, too hard to feel comforting. “If something happens he’s out, I swear, cross on my heart an’ all of that. But I’m sure you’re not even gonna run into him again.”

He squeezes his shoulder, like that would solve anything, ready to leave him and go back to his friends. Louis is not in the mood to respond to any of that. He scrolls him off himself, and mutters a:

“Whatever, fuck. Okay,” turns on his heels and gets lost in the crowd again.

He knows this house like the palm of his hand, but it’s hard to navigate it when his vision is swimming in vodka, the floors are sticky and every couple of steps someone crashes into him.

When he finally arrives at the terrace the cold air greets him like a blow of new life, clearing his mind in a second. He remains for a second of the door, his eyes closed, breathing as steadily as he can through his nose. Someone behind him yells to close the door, so he has to step out.

It’s freezing outside. Louis vaguely registers that, but he’s too drunk to really feel it. The cold air caresses him on his temples, on his forehead: it feels like the wind is pressing its gentle hands on him, to try to make him gain his consciousness back.

There are some people, scattered here and there, chatting softly and drinking near the railing. It’s all couples, so Louis finds easily an empty spot to go rest and feel even lonelier than before.

It’s completely dark out and his eyes can’t find anything to rest on, apart from some distant lights. There’s nothing he can use to distract himself from the fact David is here.

David, the last person he wanted to meet and deal with, especially on a night like this one. No way in hell he’s going to spend the first day of the new year with _ him. _Even as big as this house could be, that’s just wrong.

He takes his phone out, careful to take a step back and gripping it with excessive force: his sight is swimming, and he really doesn’t want to drop it in the darkness. The light of the screen blinds him, and once he gets to lower it he sees that it’s only a little bit more than half an hour before midnight.

Half an hour before midnight, and he’s miserable, angry, and lonely.

To be fair, that’s a good way to say goodbye to it: it depicts his past year decently well.

He unlocks the phone, goes through the contacts and stares a bit Harry’s name: he knows how much it would cheer him up to text him or call him, but it seems so cheap as well.

An _ oh, you got a bit ruffled? Let’s call Harry and throw our misery on him, _ kind of deal. To be fair he knows Harry would be happy to hear from him whenever, but… it would be like justifying himself, wouldn't it? To tell himself, _ see, I was sincere when I said nothing is ever going to happen, because it just didn’t. _

But nothing had happened, and he doesn’t want to steer the pot just for the gist of it. He has no intention of even mentioning that David is here: he fears it would end even worsley, and, honestly, it’s just not worth it.

He puts his phone back, and in a second his head is back in his hands.

_ Fuck. _He wouldn't have the energy to deal with this even if sober and with a decent disclaimer beforehand, so now he’s lost in a storm of rage and betrayal and confusion, without knowing which one is the strongest one, and which one exists for which reason.

Everything is mixed, from how he should be freezing to how he’s ready to jump out his own skin.

_ I don’t wanna be here, _he can hear, louder than the rest.

When he said to Harry, _ I wish you were ten minutes in bike from you, _he didn’t expect he could be feeling it even more strongly, but here he is, drunk and alone on his friend’s terrace, only wishing he had Harry with him. Only wishing there was a way from him to spend just this night with him; anything to keep him afar from someone he was sure he was going to marry.

He remains with his head in his hands, elbows resting on the railing, staring at the dark horizon. Around him he can hear the couples giggling and chatting, the confusion from the mansion, the heavy buzz of the loud music playing.

Cold starts seeping through his thin sweater, but he’s not ready to face the crowd again.

The music gets louder for a second, to then go back as normal. Louis hears footsteps hitting the ground, and knows another couple must have joined the terrace.

The footsteps, though, continue for just another couple of seconds, to then stop where it feels like few steps away from him.

Louis closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

_ Please, _ he prays. _ Let it not be him. _

He turns around slowly, wary of how heavy his head feels for the alcohol. It’s him. Of course it is. Of fucking course.

He’s standing away from him, like Louis is a wild animal that must be handle with precaution, like he’s ready to bite his head off. Like he’s the problem.

They remain in silence, overwhelmed by something Louis would never admit it’s _ shared. _He can read it in his eyes, in the frown of his eyebrows that it’s already offering an apology, in how distant he’s standing from him. In the fact that he left the party to try and find him, to probably offering an explanation.

Louis wishes he could hate him. It would make everything easier, but he doesn’t. He’d never.

Seeing him standing so distant from him, when they promised each other they would always have each other’s back, only makes the chasm in his chest grow bigger.

“Why are you here?” It’s everything he can get out. After eight months, that’s how he greets who once was _ the love of his life _.

He means both at this party and _ here with me on this terrace, why did you leave your friends to run after me, _but hopes the man in front of him is bright enough to get that. 

David, on his behalf, only sighs. He must have interpreted Louis not screaming at him as a good sign, because he gets nearer him, until he’s resting on the railing as well, on Louis’ left.

“I’m… Listen, I'm sorry,” his words are slurred. They’re both drunk and confused, alone in the dark. It doesn’t sound promising. “This- it wasn't in my plans, really.”

“Why are you here,” Louis repeats, undaunted.

He doesn't give a fuck about his plans. Not when he’s close enough Louis can smell his cologne, not when it’s the same as before. His hair is mussed, sticking up in weird spots. He never cared much about it, never as much as Louis. Louis doesn’t recognise the shirt he has on, and has to stop wondering when he bought it, for which occasion, if anyone has seen him take it off, but what about putting on again? He-

“A couple of friends told me they were invited to a party in Manchester,” David replays, and thank god for that. Louis is not interested in following his drunken mind around. “I didn't have plans in London so I ended up here. It wasn't my intention, I-”

“You know this house, though,” he interrupts him, because how dare he to play mind games with him. It’s not fair. “You know where you were going.”

_ You've been here before, _ he’s tempted to add. _ Do you remember that summer of two years ago, when you came here with all of my friends and we only eat strawberries and crisps and did nothing but play footie and smoke and go to the lake and fuck in a bed that was too small for us, and then we would look at the stars and dreaming about our future together and- _fuck. Just because he’s not saying that, it doesn’t mean he should think about it. He's too drunk for that, and David is just here, he, he can't. It’s a dangerous game to play.

But David was with him along with anything he could think of, and when Louis focuses back on him and sees his pained expression, he knows he, too, thought about that same summer.

“I know. I’m sorry, I am.” Louis hates how genuine and sincere he is. He has to turn to the dark horizon again, he can’t stand any of this. “But I was already here, yeah? What could I have done about it? We’re not even in the city, it’s not like I could’ve just changed pubs and… And I thought you weren't gonna be here.” At that Louis stares at him again. _ What? _“Louis I... I was told you moved to Amsterdam?” he’s asking, unsure. Louis never told him he was going to move away. He didn’t have the guts to. “Though that maybe you were gonna do new year's eve there?”

Louis is astonished. So David really had thought he was going to spend the _ holidays _away from his family? After being together for four years, he still hasn’t understood what is the most important thing in Louis’ life?

But he doesn't say any of it, aware that starting an argument they had dozens of times would be only wasting time. An argument that broke them up, in the end. 

He doesn’t say anything in the end, but he's still angry. Even if he was still in Amsterdam, that wouldn’t justify David to be here. He has no right to ruin his new year, no right to spend this night at his friend’s house. None. 

“Listen, I, I'm sorry. Really, I am,” he breaks off the silence that kept growing between them. Louis is too lost in the alcohol and in his rage to speak. “But… I can’t go anywhere now. The car’s not mine and I can’t take it to leave my friends here. It’s not even one hour ‘till midnight and…. Calvin's house is huge, right? We didn't see each other until now, maybe we… We could just ignore each other, right? No need to argue about this.”

His voice already sounds distant, like he’s ready to leave Louis on the terrace. He sounds so sad, though, and it confuses Louis for a second. Why is he the only angry between the two? He feels fiercely protective of this space, right, but the man on his left is the same one he shared those memories he’s so protective over.

It doesn’t sit right in him how he was left with the rage, and apparently David was left with the sadness. He’s sad, too. Has been for months. If he puts aside the betrayal he feels, he knows he will find enough heartache to fill an ocean with. And he doesn’t want it anymore. He’s too tired to carry it with him, anywhere he goes.

Maybe it’s guilt, maybe it’s selfishness, but he snaps out of his hazy confusion and grabs David by one sleeve. He wasn’t going anywhere, not yet. Time feels weird when you’re drunk.

“No, wait,” he asks. “Stay here for a sec.”

When he looks up to him, he can see that David is surprised, but seems happy Louis told him that. He leans on the railing again, shifting an inch or two closer to Louis.

“I- I'm sorry, too,” Louis forces out, and he is. “But you can't blame me for reacting like this. I… This was the last thing I was expecting.”

He lets go of his sleeve and looks at him again, for the first time without any anger or surprise, for the first time in nearly nine months. 

His dark eyes are the same as before: soft, thrusting, cosy, nearly. His big nose is still there, and Louis should stop being so surprised by how similar this David is to the one who used to be _ his_. There’s no stupid smirk in place, though, just a painful sincere stare, full of apologies and affection.

It starts again, immediately, that awareness mixed with Liam saying, _ you would have married him_, and fuck, Louis would have loved that, he really would've. He's still the same Louis, and the man in front of him is still the same David. 

They never talked too extensively about marriage, because they would have got married in two seconds, and they both knew about the enormous, unspeakable problem that would have broken them off. Just like it did. 

“I know. I wasn't going to. Blame you, I mean.” David runs a hand through his hair, which consequently gets even messier. “I get why you reacted like that, I just… I don't wanna you to be mad, not on the last day of the year, yeah?”

Louis nods, and doesn’t add anything. There are no words.

It’s a bit weird, isn’t it? They don't know what to say to each other. They spent so much time in each other’s pockets, knew all of their secrets, and now? Now they’re left with a gap between them that feels bigger than the love they shared.

And yet, in all of this, he's so familiar, still. In this sea of things that have slightly change, just enough to make them feel uncomfortable, David is apparently still the same. Same face, same smell, same clumsy smile. He’s still so much taller than Louis, his hair still a big mess, just like how he loved it.

He's the same as when they broke up, which means he's the same as when Louis was head over heels for four years straight for him, still the same as when Louis would have married him.

All of this is confusing as shit, because he's drunk and lost, and there's something wrong. There’s some alarm going off in his brain, but he doesn't know what it wants, and he’s too tired to follow his paranoia around. He wants to be like he used to.

So, he ignores it, rests his arms on the railing and turns to his ex.

“So... How's the newspaper going?”

David tilts his head, confused for a moment, but decides to accept the bait without any wondering. He starts talking about is job then, about his last articles and his Russian lessons, about whether or not he can ask for a transfer and start finally working as a reporter like he wants to.

Louis just listens to him, quietly, and gets lost in a comforting blur, in words he knows, spoken through a voice he's so fond of. He knows almost all the names David is calling, and can follow his rambling with little to no problems. He could even imagine that these last months never happened, that he never left and that they managed to mend all their problems.

Alcohol fogs his brain and he's immersed in this flow of words and sounds. He doesn't know where he is, he just knows that he's with David and he's alright, because that's something he always knew: to be with him, to feel at peace with him. 

But then David asks him, “What about you? Why Amsterdam?” 

And Louis has a second where he doesn’t want to reveal anything. The way David asked _ why _struck him the most: he’s still stuck on the reason why Louis left, and maybe can’t ask him how he’s doing before he knows and accepts that.

Louis remains silent for a bit, but he has to wonder, _ why _? It’s useless to be fake and say he’s a dozen times better than before, when it’s obviously not true. Not when David is not in a stellar form either. So he just says, as honest as he can:

“I needed a break from-” _ you, _ “England in general. You know how it is.”

David nods. “Yeah. I know.”

_ Fuck. _Louis can’t do this, it’s too weird.

It’s too fucking absurd, because despite everything, they’re still on the same page. They still feel the same about everything. They were still in love when they broke up, and it hurt them, in the same fucking way.

But Louis can’t let himself think about it any longer, so he shakes those thoughts off and continues about Amsterdam.

It doesn’t take long before he meets another problem: it’s impossible to talk about the city without Harry popping up in his stories. But Harry doesn’t fit in that blur that captured the two of them, he can’t fit in this moment he’s having with David at all.

He can’t invite him in, and he can’t go out of it neither: he’s still absorbed in this flow, because David is still right here next to him, looking and talking and listening exactly how he remembered him. And Harry.... he doesn’t belong in this moment. 

Harry is a bright splash of color in a fog of neutral tones, a spiky edge in a sea of soft, familiar memories. He’s something Louis can’t ignore, something that would take him out of where he is and place him back into reality, and Louis is not ready for that just yet.

He is confused and conflicted, and all of this is too hard to rationalise and he’s too drunk to properly think about it. Or maybe he doesn’t want to because now the only thing he can perceive is that the love he left is still here, exactly how he remembered it. 

So, after a bit of babbling, he gives up, knowing he’s making little to no sense. He goes taking a cig from his pocket, without offering one to David.

“You still doing that?” he asks, and it rubs Louis the wrong way. He had tried quitting when they were together, but never succeeded for too long. In the end he just stopped trying.

“Yeah,” he responds. “And why do you care, still?” He lights up his cigarette and for a second David disappears behind a cloud of smoke.

“Hey.” He’s frowning. “I can still care about you, you know,” he rebuts, and he's so fucking sincere, that's the fucking problem.

Why should Louis not be in love with him anymore? When did he stop loving him? He doesn't remember. The alcohol is way louder and he.... He can't. David still smells like he used to, and he still looks at him in the same way, and he's weak, so weak. He remembers now, how being in love with him was. He doesn't want to forget again, maybe.

“You shouldn't.”

There's no part of him that thinks or wishes that. He wanted to marry him. His brain switched off, got rotten, and he forgot so much, this included, but now he's here and he can't fake it anymore. Maybe he doesn’t want to forget again.

“You shouldn't,” he repeats. “I'm not yours, not anymore.”

“I know,” he says, quietly, and he's sad.

They both were. Louis remembers that, remembers the responsibility of being mature enough to walk away from him. He remembers crying non-stop for days.

He can't forget any of it, he could never.

Is that everything he has left from that? Just some sobbing stories and not being able to smoke without feeling guilty? 

That’s all left from four years together, five if you include Louis' pining before he worked the courage to ask for a date, more, even, if you count all these months they were distant. Should he count these months, too? Is he in love with him, still? 

Truth is, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember how is it like to not being in love with him.

He turns to look up to him, and he’s so near and so familiar. Louis knows these moments, how they used to go out at night and always ended up like this, smoking and hugging and kissing in between, with Louis resting on him and David’s arms wrapped around him. Louis being always cold, like he is now, and David knowing what to do without asking.

It’s so right, everything is just how things were, and Louis knows that David is thinking the same. It’s just them, the alcohol, and a night that’s still so young.

Louis finishes his cig in silence. He got nearer him in the meantime, trying to borrow some of his body warmth without touching him completely.

David checks his phone, and for a moment a nosy blue light intrudes between them. He puts his phone back and looks at Louis: there’s some conflict going on behind his eyes.

“Listen,” he starts and stops immediately. He frowns and gets even closer to Louis. “It’s nearly midnight.”

“Yeah.”

“I know this may sounds… weird, or like a bad idea, but… listen to me, okay?”

That’s always promising. “… Okay”

David takes a deep breath. His right shoulder touches Louis’ side, and he leans into it. He’s cold.

“I know we broke up, but I feel like…” he pauses again. “I know for sure you will always be important for me.”

“Of course. You for me, too. ”

David must have taken that as a good sign, because he gets even closer, putting his arms around him. Louis is too busy getting warmer to acknowledge that.

“Okay. This is stupid, but… I don’t have anyone to kiss at midnight, and I know they say it’s good luck to kiss someone at midnight, and-”

Louis raises his head to look at him, frowning. He didn’t step away from him, though.

“What?”

“No, wait, sorry, I didn’t mean…” he stammers out. “I’m just saying. Not to... get back together, we both know that won’t work anymore.” he bites his lip, looking pained. “We tried, but…”

“Our problems weren’t manageable?” Louis supplies, feeling for once more resigned than bitter.

“Yeah. They were… too big, too real. It would be just to say happy new year? You’re still you, and I think I’m still me, too.”

There’s a funny feeling in his chest. “You are.”

That’s the whole damn problem. Where is the line? Where is the past and where is the present?

Louis is too drunk to see it, he’s immensely lost.

On one hand, he wants to accept the offer: they kissed so many times it would be impossible to know how many, it’s an amount lost in a sea of numbers that don’t exist. What is going to change with just one more? Even as painful as it was, he had to accept that their relationship is something that was not going to come back, not now and not ever. No matter how their feeling may still be.

So, one kiss? Just one, for the last time? To wish each other a happy new year and go in their personal direction again?

“What’s one kiss gonna change?” he murmurs to himself.

He doesn’t know, and in the indecision he gets closer to him: not to kiss him, he just curls up on him a bit more. David hugs him, but instead of feeling warmer, that weird feeling is back. 

There’s something in the back of his mind that keeps poking at him, something he can’t decipher, but now it’s too annoying and loud to ignore.

He realises that it’s the same thing he was feeling before: something that it’s too bright, too colorful, too spiky for that moment, something that doesn’t fit in at all. And he realises that this familiar sense he has, here with him, while is still genuine, it’s not the right one for him anymore.

Louis has moved on.

He has changed cities, countries, friends, habits. He’s a different person, no matter what he tries to say to himself: it makes no sense to try to connect back to his past, when it just doesn’t fit anymore in the path he's creating for himself.

Now he feels at peace somewhere else, with something else. The familiar feelings he has with David are old, and now he seeks out a new sense of intimacy. Everything has changed, and they don’t fit anymore like they used to.

Because, yeah, David is taller than him, but he’s too tall; and he’s hugging him, but he doesn’t have the arms he got used to; he recognises his smell, but it’s too masculine for him now; his eyes are still the same, but they’re too dark, and his beard is too spiky.

There’s something that it’s not clicking, and he realises that all of this means just one thing: David is not Harry.

And Louis knows he could never kiss someone that is not Harry, not anymore. Not even someone that took a piece of his soul and swapped it with a piece of his own, and that’s something that will never go back as before. David will always have a piece of his heart, but he has moved on and his heart has changed. He can’t do something like that.

It’s staggering, to understand that. It strikes him, and makes him open his eyes in a way they could never be closed again.

So, he takes a step back and looks at him in the eyes. He’s still close, with his hands on his arms; David waiting, patiently, still unsure. 

“I... I can’t,” it’s weird, how easily the words rolls out of his tongue. “Because I don’t have someone to kiss here either, but I have someone to kiss in Amsterdam.”

David frowns like he’s trying to decipher what Louis just said.

Time seems to slow down to an infinite pitch: Louis goes out of himself, and meets a version of David that’s out of his body, too. There’s recognition, there, and acceptance. The second ends, and David is still too surprised to say something.

He didn’t expect it, that’s for certain: he’s still frowning, still saying little _ “oh? Oh!” _to fill the silence between them. But somehow it’s still okay. They’re still half hugging, and what Louis feels is still something he can recognize: it just morphed into simple affection now.

David has shut his stuttering mouth now, but the gears are still going in full speed behind his eyes.

“I’m... Happy you found someone,” he says in the end, and despite how weak is his voice, he’s sincere.

It’s heartwarming and heart wrenching at the same time, because even if they’re still a bit in love with each other, they both know it’s not enough. Because Louis had the guts to step outside the circle he has drawn around himself, and he had the luck to meet Harry in the process. Harry, who is so much more colorful and real, so much more solid and wonderful than any of _ this _.

“Does he… Does-” he stops, putting one hand over his mouth and turning away from Louis. There’s pain in his eyes. If Louis was any more clear-headed he would have been able to see his eyes gleaming with tears, but now David is facing the darkness again, and Louis can only imagine how he feels.

How would he have reacted? There’s no way of knowing. Louis squeezes his arm until David turns back to him again. He looks like he had swallowed the truth, and accepted it.

“I hope you too will find what you’re looking for,” Louis says when he sees him like that, because he knows that whoever will end up marrying him will be so, so lucky. He’s sincere, too. He really thinks that.

He still looks shook up when he replays, a bit wistful: “To do that, I should know what I’m looking for.”

It’s Louis’ time to feel melancholic now. With a sad smile, he says:

“And don’t I know that?”

He frees one arm and checks time: it’s only minutes to midnight.

David sees him hesitate over the contacts app, and understands immediately.

“I’ll leave you to call him.”

He retrieves his arms to himself, and steps away quietly, his head always facing down.

"I'll see you inside, okay?" Louis doesn't want to end that abruptly their moment, but he has to hurry to call Harry. 

"Don't worry about it." It’s all he says back before stepping inside the mansion again.

Louis’s thumb hovers around the contact app again. He needs a moment only for himself.

He has spent years thinking, _ it shouldn’t go like this, _ then months like, _ it shouldn’t have gone like this_. With regret and bitterness heavy on his heart, always present on his mind.

He finally had the closure he longed without knowing, he’s finally _ happy _ that everything went exactly like that, because now he has someone to call and wish a happy new year to, someone to _ go back home to. _

Harry picks up the phone at the fourth ring, and Louis wants to kiss him for that. Louis would kiss him for anything he does.

“Hi,” he greets him with, and suddenly he can’t stop smiling. He’s warm again, even if he’s alone.

“Hi Louuu, you won’t believe what is happening, we-” Harry sounds just tipsy, but with enough enthusiasm to make him seem a lot drunker than Louis.

He goes on about some description of his party, how Zayn revealed to be the best dancer in town, about whether or not it is legal to have fireworks in the city centre and a lot more Louis isn’t sure he can follow. That’s a bit because Harry slurs in Dutch words here and there, and because Louis is momentarily on another celestial plane, on another plane of existence, because he has just understood.

Whatever he thought was holding him back doesn’t exist anymore. He’s free to go back to Harry, free to _ fly back _to him.

“It’s midnight soon,” he offers to the conversation. He has so many things to say.

“Is it? Nooo, that’s so cool! Here’s not even eleven yet!”

“What? How-” oh yes, time zones. That means two calls, though, two celebrations. Louis’s smile gets even bigger.

“Harry, my love,” Harry shuts up instantly. “I… Called for saying happy new year an’ all of that, but I… I need you to tell you other things, okay? Happy ones!” he adds, because Harry had stopped breathing. “And I… I know I’m half drunk. Or more than that. But you gotta believe me, okay? I mean this, I mean everything. Maybe it’s just that I can say things easier, but it’s time, right? I should've said this so long ago, but now I know, you get it? I know.”

“You… know. That’s great, Lou.” Harry, way too distant from him, sounds still too distracted and compliant for Louis’ taste.

“No, no, I mean it, I’m serious. My place, love, my place is in Amsterdam, now I know.”

He had given so much of his life in destiny’s hands. He had tried to fit in a space he thought to be apt for him, when the reality was that he was trying to mutilate himself to fit into David’s edges. 

“… Oh?”

“Yeah, I just… spoke with some people and-”

“With who?”

“That’s not the point, it’s just…” he laughs. It’s simple, isn’t it? “I finally got it, yeah? I know I’m happy everything went how it went, and I mean it, everything. Because then I got to know you, and that it’s worth everything, you understand that?” is he gonna cry by his own words? Is he laughing? He doesn’t know anymore. “You hit me and, and, the axis of the world shifted. It shifted because of you and me. And I got to meet you, and... your bike, and your weird cardigans, and-”

“Hey,” Harry protests, but he sounds choked up.

“No, no, I love them. I do.” Is this how it’s supposed to feel like? Or is he just going insane? Or is a taste of pure happiness after so long that is making him delirious? “There’s nothing I could feel more grateful of, okay? Everything was worth it. Everything. Because I got to met you.”

“Oh,” Harry says, voice a whisper. “You’re serious.”

“I am, my love, I am. I know I’m drunk so this sounds like gibberish, but I’m serious, okay? I… I can’t wait to go back to Amsterdam.” Harry gasps _ out loud _at that. Louis laughs again. “I know! And I can’t wait to kiss you again, and it’s so weird that I can’t kiss you now at midnight, but I really, I…. can’t wait to be back.”

It’s such a strong, earth-shattering thing to say, coming from Louis, and he knows Harry got how strong that is, how serious he’s being.

“Louis,” he sounds choked up again. “_Schatje_, I-”

Fireworks start from the garden below the terraces. People start screaming everywhere, a mixture of _ happy new years _and too many curse words. Louis turns around, and sees that all the couples that were there with him are now gone.

He should feel alone, but he doesn’t. On the phone, Harry is still stuttering out sweet things, just for him. It’s just the two of them.

“Midnight has passed.” It feels monumental. “Happy new year, baby.”

“Happy new year, Lou. I can’t wait to see you again.”

“Me neither. And I can’t wait to spend this next year with you. In a week I’ll be with you again, and I… I can’t wait.”

They remain on the phone just a bit more, to exchange new year’s resolutions and other crap, to laugh about Harry’s friends making fun of him from Amsterdam, and about Louis’ ones nearly setting a tree on fire.

Harry says _ goodbye _ promising he will call him back in one hour, and spurring him to go celebrate with his friends. Louis tells him again, _ can’t wait to go back to you, _until he can hear how much Harry is blushing just by how embarrassed he sounds.

Louis hangs up feeling a million times lighter than before. Now, some hard alcohol is waiting for him.

~*~

Shaky glasses in front of him, shaky people all over the small table. Loud music, louder voices. The ball draws an arc in the air, there are more screams, and Louis sees it missing its target and rolling over the floor.

The screams that follow are mixed - which ones are his and which ones his friends’? - but it doesn’t matter: Louis has the ball tight in his hand, and just when he flexes his arm behind his shoulder he feels a weird tingling over his right thigh.

He’s frozen in motion, with the screaming still happening - mostly _ throw the fucking ball _ \- when he realises it’s his phone. Ball long forgotten (more screaming), he takes it out of his pocket, and sees the warmest thing: it’s nearly 1 am and _ Harry :) _is calling him. His vodka is immediately forgotten.

“I have to take this one, guys,” he slurs out, answering the call without even stepping away from the table.

“You fucking cunt,” he distinctively hears. The rest is confused.

“Wow,” Harry giggles from across the sea. “That’s how you talk to a lady?”

“Hi baby," a baffled silence follows. "Don’t mind my friends. Guess they’re jealous.”

Louis looks around the spinning room, and sees his friends catching up with the situation. They all start making compromising noises, loud and careless, and Louis feels like they’re all seventeen again.

Harry giggles again, seeming to find all of this funny. Good. Louis takes a step back from the crowd, while he keeps getting harassed with unrepeatable noises from his friends, and meets David’s eyes by accident.

He was cheering on the wodka-pong situation, too; Louis had found that after another couple of shots he didn’t mind his presence at all. He found it nearly okay, too: they were sharing the same space, but without interacting more than the necessary. Louis can see he’s not making noises of any kind, though. Maybe he should step outside.

“I’m going out, stop being pigs,” he announces, backing away, which of course only makes the situation worse.

“Awww, you told all your friends about me. Good, good,” Harry is _ so _drunk.

Louis opens the door to the terrace again, and this time he finds it empty. It’s cold as balls, too.

“‘Course I did,” _ he didn’t, not quite. _“See ya’ve caught up with me, love! How’s your night going?”

“Louis, _ Lou-is_,” he stresses, and starts another long-winded story that Louis understands only a fraction of.

He has no means to do it, neither: Harry is way too drunk, and he starts speaking half in Dutch and half in English, but with so much pathos Louis could never stop him and asks for a translation.

He starts saying random things, too, mixing them from the little Dutch he had learned in these few days: mostly _ kinderen gaan naar school, volwassenen gaan naar kantoor _ kind of things, but _ je bent erg lief _ and _ ik mis je _too.

And Harry, god, Harry is so happy. Even if Louis doesn’t get every single word, it’s enough for them to be on the phone together, for both of their new year’s, deciding to share this moment above anything else.

When midnight strikes in central Europe, too, Louis hears their fireworks and screams and Harry completely drunk repeating the same rambling over and over: _ so happy we met, happy new year, we’ll make great things together, come back here. _

And there’s only them in the dark, only them in these moments, and they’re so happy and complete, which is why Louis gets so fucking annoyed when he hears the terrace’s door opening and his friends’ screams joining him again.

“Oi,” Calvin says. “Are you coming back? Ya left all o’ us hangin’.”

“Don’t fucking bother me.” Louis is not even turning around.

“You got two hits left, lad,” Oli adds.

_ How many of them came here? Jesus fuck. _

“Ask someone else, Christ-”

“Who was that?” Harry’s voice interrupts him. He sounds curious though, not bothered at all.

“Those dickheads of my friends, who else.”

A chorus of _ oi _raises from them, promptly followed by more insults.

“Introduce us, won’t you? Don’t be rude.” Harry is still laughing.

Louis would give him the world, so he rolls his eyes and turns around. _ Might as well. _

“First one we have Calvin. He fancies himself a guitarist, go figure - _ no, you’re not speaking to him - _then we have a ginger dude. Legend says he looks like a Veggie Tale character-” he doesn’t even get what Oli is yelling at him, with how much Harry is laughing in one ear, and how much his friends are roasting him and each other in the other.

More people are popping out, curious about the mess of yelling they’re making, and Louis is still trying to describe all of them to Harry, who, is sure, will turn bored of this game soon. Or so he hopes.

In the midst of calling people out, he’s not even noticing anymore _ who _he is calling out. That’s why, when David appears, he introduces him like everyone else.

He says just his name, no description. But it’s enough to make his blood run cold.

“Oh, okay,” Harry just says, away, too far away from him. He sounds lost in thought, maybe even tired, ready to hop off the game and do something else.

Sure enough, in Louis’ clouded mind he sounded completely different: closed off, angered.

“Oh no, shit, no- that’s not what you think,” he whispers into the phone, not wanting his friends to catch up on what is happening. He sends a death glance to Calvin, hoping he will read his mind and back off, and without waiting for that to happen he gets away from the crowd, turning the corner to a dark and empty spot of the terrace. “It’s not what you think,” he repeats. “Nothing happened, I didn’t know and-”

“I, umh,” Harry sounds confused, above anything else. “I wasn’t thinking about anything, why are you saying this? What happened?”

Louis is getting whiplash from this conversation. _ What. _

He understands too late that Harry obviously didn’t get what was going on, and Louis shouldn’t have gotten so defensive so soon.

“Oh! Oh, nothing,” he tries to laugh it off, but he sounds strangled. “Nothing, I just… nothing really. Don’t think about it, tell me about your night, love?”

“Don’t think about it?” Harry now sounds bothered, puzzled. “Why are you so… frenetic, so out of the blue?” Before Louis can reassure him again, he hears it: the sharp intake of air. The shift in the atmosphere. Harry got it. “Oh,” he says, toneless. “You meant _ that _David, right?”

Louis is a foolish, foolish man.

“You… fuck,” Harry’s voice is distant, now, hollow. “You lied to me. You’re doing… stuff behind my back, and then you’re lying in my face, too, _ fuck _-”

“_No,_” is this really happening? Louis has to recover this conversation before Harry goes further into the wrong speculations. “No, don’t try to make this into a tragedy, it’s not-”

“_You’re telling me,_” and fuck, he’s already screaming. “To not make a tragedy? What’s next? Don’t make a scene? You know how you sound like?”

“_Yes,” _Louis is screaming as well. He turns around he sees he’s alone now on the terrace. He wonders if his friends fucked off before or after he started screaming. “Let me explain how things went, okay?”

“I don’t-”

“Fuck, Harry, two minutes, okay?" he pleads in the dark. "I came here at Calvin's and he was already at the party, I didn’t know he was gonna be here _ at all _-”

“That’s fucking bullshit and _you know it," _ Louis has never heard him being this bitter, not even when they screamed at each other's faces. "There's no way in hell you didn’t know.”

"I’m serious! I couldn’t believe either, and then I nearly threw hands at Calvin because I thought he did it on purpose, to invite him and not telling me, but-”

“Oh my god, your friends are in this, too?” In a second, he now sounds like he’s closer to tears, like he’s already choking on them. “So they’ve organised this so you two can go back together? _ Neuken, Ik wist het-” _

"No!" _ fuck, _ Louis is going to rip his hair off in frustration. The wind blows ice cold and unperturbed over him. "That's - no, just listen to me okay? Everything is okay, I _ promise_, I just talked to him, to David I mean, and I’ve asked about why he’s here and-" 

"Oh so you _ have _ talked to him, then!" _ when the fuck did I say I didn't, _ Louis would love to ask, but there's no time. "You- you- why did you talk to him? To say _ what _? What did he say, wh- why didn’t you leave, then? When you saw him?" 

In the second that follows, Louis realise that for Harry that was a legitimate question. He feels his jaw hitting the floor. 

"… Harry, what even-" he starts, unsure. "I’m with my best friends, why would I leave? I haven't seen them in months, we haven't partied together in… I don't even know how long and-" he talks slowly, trying to maintain his calm, because they can't be both over the top with the dramatics and Louis _ knows _ he did nothing wrong, that nothing bad had happened, he just needs Harry to listen to him for a _ goddamn second. _ "What gotten into you?” _ weren’t they alright? Just one hour ago, weren’t they promising each other anything? _ “I told you, nothing is happening, I just talked to him. I wanted to know why he was here." That's reasonable, right? He feels like he's losing his own mind, discussing like this. "I was far more shocked about it than you, you get that, right? "_Isn’t that obvious? _

But Harry must find it not obvious at all, because he only laughs, slanderous, like he’s too smart to be ridiculed by Louis just like this. As if Louis was trying to trick him into some lies.

“So yeah, sure,” he mocks, sarcastic. “So now I have to believe that you’re there, total drunk, with your fucking ex and all of this is a coincidence?”

_ Well, when you put it like that. _

Louis knows how all of this looks like, and also knows to not say that sentence.

“I… yeah? But what, do you think I’m happy about this?” He’s getting pissed, too. Why is Harry not listening to him, but rather insisting in making this a tragedy? It would take him a minute to explain, but Harry already made up his mind about this situation, and worst of all, about him. As if Louis would ever do something like that.

“I don’t know if you realise, but this is a fucking hell for me, too,” he continues, raising his voice to be heard. “It’s not like I am or I was happy about this. I was pissed as hell when I saw him.”

“No? I don’t believe you, how the fuck is something like this even possible? ”_Fuck, _Louis is going to throw his phone into the darkness below the terrace. Harry is getting even angrier, if that’s possible. “I don’t believe you. Things like this don’t just happen, and I know that, Louis. I know.”

And _ fuck, _as much as Louis tries to keep in mind how awful something like this sounds to someone who had Harry’s experiences, he’s still in his own goddamn right to be angry. They were alright, he was playing fucking wodka-pong, listening to shitty music, and now he’s screaming in the dark, alone, to someone who won’t shut up for a second to let him explain how things went.

Maybe there’s no cure for all of this. Maybe he was just imagining this, just one hour ago, making castles in his head about their future together.

“You’re out of your mind, lad, what even-” and he knows that wasn’t right to say, but he’s cold, he’s angry, and he wants to hang up.

“_I’m _ out of my mind? Am I the one, when-” Harry is exploding. For the little Louis can hear, maybe he’s already crying for frustration and anger. His voice got a lot deeper, growling. “Can you, _ verdomme, _ can you see how this is from my point of view? I call you at _ midnight _because I want to spend this moment with you, and, and I discover there’s your fucking ex, among all other people, at your party there with you, and you’re- you’re both drunk and in the middle of nowhere! How should I feel then, tell me!”

“Why aren’t you listening to me?” Louis feels like, crying, too. He was hoping to be the only paranoid one in the relationship. “I’m trying to explain, please, listen to me, I- I was angrier than you could ever be when I saw him, really.” On the other end of the phone, Harry is breathing heavily, but he’s silent now. “Still am, honestly. When I, when I told you that there were no chances I’d ever seen him, I was telling the truth, I don’t- okay, listen,” he’s going to explain from start to finish. Easy. “Calvin invited some friends of his, okay? Not him. They brought him along because he had nothing to do in London so-”

“And you really wanna make me believe he had nothing to do in London?” Harry cuts him off, and he’s angry again. “That he didn’t know what he was doing when he got there? Because he wants to be back with you, you got that, right?”

“W-what?” The wind is still going, slapping him in the face, but that’s not what just hit him. “I… no?” He’s a loss of words, and he stutters some more before grasping what he wants to say. “Okay, but, even if he wanted that, what about it?” He hears Harry gasping, so he continues, rushing his words out. “I don’t want him, so who cares! Who cares what he wants! I just told you that I only want you! And we’ve just talked, David and I, I mean, and it’s all clear between us and-”

“So you talked to him-”

“I never said I didn’t-”

“You talked to him. Privately, about your relationship. You _ did _that while you two were this fucking drunk.”

“I did, but what about it? You have to fucking believe me and what I’m telling you, okay? Do you understand you’re telling me that you can’t trust me? That the reason you’re so angry is because _ you _ can’t trust _ me_?” He wants to puke. It’s too cold, his teeth are chattering, his hands are rigid and Harry doesn’t trust him at all. “You think I’m doing all of this behind your back, despite me trying to explain how things went? I know how it looks like, and I’m angry, too, but do you think it’s normal for you to think all of that?”

Louis thought he had done a decent job in defending himself, but the only thing Harry says after that is:

“And do _ you _think it’s normal to hang out with your ex at new year’s eve?”

_ Please, _ Louis prays to who-knows-who. _ Please let this end. _

“Harry, honestly, what about it? Honestly.” He sits on the ground, the railing only partly covering him from the wind. “You get that you feel like you have to control me every passing second or you won’t trust me? Do you realise that the problem is that you don’t fucking trust me? Like, at all? Not that I’m doing anything wrong, because I’m not,” he adds, after a beat.

_“_No, it’s not that.” Harry, on the other hand, sounds like he’s ready to scream and fight for another hour. Louis drops his head in his hands. “It’s because you do things that make me think you don’t deserve my trust.”

Louis has no reply to that.

“You’re out of your mind,” he just says, spent. “I thought we were alright, why are you so upset, I didn’t-”

“Oh, so this is my fault? I'm the crazy one?” Harry rebuts, promptly. Louis notes how easily he wallows himself into this tragic version of reality, but he’s too drunk and tired to analyse that.

“Wha- I'm not saying that, I wouldn't say that?” _ Well, he kind of did. _ “Just... what's this even about, I-”

“So you think it's alright if you hang with your ex like that?”

“Like that _ how, _ I didn't even know he was gonna be here! It's not like I planned it!” They’re just saying the same shit, back and forth. This conversation should have ended half an hour ago. “You weren't even here, nothing hap-”

“I know I wasn't there, but he was! How's that alright?” Honestly, is that the problem? It’s just envy, then, so why Harry is screaming _at him? _ “You call me all drunk, and he's there, all over you, and-”

“_All over me?” _Did he hear that right? “You're talking out of your arse. And I'm hanging up.” He stands up, his legs wobbly, ready to finish this call.

“No, no, don't, no-”

Louis doesn’t understand if Harry is still angry or plain pleading, now, but he still interrupts him.

“How is any of this healthy, by the way? How can you not trust me this much? I told you over and over nothing happened and nothing will never happen, and I _ shouldn't even have to say it_, because I’m so serious with you, I told you that. When did I ever give you any reason to not trust me?”

_ You do things that make me think you don’t deserve my trust_, Harry said, and Louis is curious to ask, _ when those happened? _

“Why didn't you say anything the first time, then? That he was there with you?”

Louis knows Harry is just clutching at straws right now, but he still explodes.

“Because I was too caught up in wishing you a happy new year, you dickhead! I meant everything I said there, did you- did you even listen to me?” He wants to cry. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. They were so happy, not long ago. “I said I can’t wait to be with you. To come back there. Do you get how sincere I was? How much that means for me, how much _ you _mean to me?” His voice got hoarse with all the screaming and the alcohol. “He wasn’t on my mind at all. I had forgotten about him the second you picked up the phone. There were only you there. Why would I ruined that moment to say that, when I knew all too well this would have happened?”

He sniffs, and, to his horror, he realises he had started crying, somewhere during this. He turns his back to the wind before his tears turn to stalactites hanging from his eyes.

But Harry either didn’t hear him or he doesn’t care. He’ still angry, still combative.

“Oh, so you know I would have got angry. So it’s not like I’m exaggerating or anything. And why didn’t you do anything to avoid that?”

Louis dries his eyes with one sleeve. He’s shaking, and he doesn’t have all the energy Harry is sporting.

“You’re out of your mind, really,” he mutters, not even yelling anymore. “Avoid what? Avoid making you angry, so not saying anything? Lying even more? Avoid being at the same party? I’ve already told you, I asked Calvin if he could’ve made him go away, he said no, I asked him about it, said he didn’t even have a car. What could I have done? It’s not like I can physically kick him out, you get that, right?”

He waits for an answer that is not coming. He looks at the phone and yeah, the calling is this going. It’s just that now Harry is talking in Dutch with someone else.

_ “Zayn, Ik zei dat je weg moest gaan.” _

Oh, fuck, no. Not Zayn. Zayn is going to skin him alive.

_ “Je blijft schreeuwen, is er iemand overleden?” _

_ “Ik zei dat je weg moest gaan, Zee. Het is niets dat je zorgen baart.” _

_ “Ik ga nergens heen. Vertel me wat er gebeurt, je was een half uur geleden gelukkig.” _

Not that Louis is understand anything, _ of course, _ but now Zayn, too, sounds worried. Fuck. Zayn will never listen to him, he will listen only to Harry, they’re going to side up against him for sure, _ fuck- _

_ “Louis is op een feestje met zijn verdomde ex.” _

Well, that was his name and that was the noun _ ex, _so cat’s out of the bag.

_ “Wat??” _

“Yeah, so I think I have the right to be angry,” Harry retorts to the mic.

Louis doesn’t know what possessed him to say what he said, what kind of mix of exasperation and desperation brought him to blurt out:

“Oi, pass me Zayn, I need to talk with him.”

There’s a stunned silence down the line, followed by a:

“... Absolutely not?”

“Harry, please, I need to-”

“Sure! You need to _ what _? Convince him too that I’m crazy and this is normal?”

The background, Zayn says, _ “hij zei wat”_, but Louis is too lost in the apparent hatred Harry has for him to care.

“What the- no. Stop this.” He’s not above crying, but he is too angry right now. Knowing how little Harry trusts him broke his heart. He’s crushed, too, but Harry is too lost in his own mind to stop saying his bullshit, and Louis feels too insulted and tired to beg him even more. “I’d never say any of that.”

_ “Wat er verdomme gebeurt, Harry?” _Zayn asks again.

Louis tries to join the conversation again, but he only hears the two arguing in Dutch over the phone. It’s always the same shit, over and over again.

He waits, wondering if he should just hang up and get hammered for the rest of the night, but then Zayn’s voice gets near, saying, _ “Oké, ik zal met deze eikel praten.” _

He must have grabbed the phone then, because now there’s his voice in Louis’ ear, saying, in a menacing way:

“Listen. I don’t know what is happening, or what the fuck have you done, but Harry is upset as hell now. So, if you’re really in the situation Harry said, I’ll… I’ll kill you, okay? I’m not joking.”

His voice is hard, his words are clear. Louis sobered up with the cold and the screaming, but Zayn doesn’t sound drunk at all, which makes him even scarier.

“I know! Fuck, I know.” Nothing of this sounds or _is _fair, but Louis only needs someone to listen to him. He _knows _he’s in the right.

“No, you don’t,” _ Yeah, sure it couldn’t be that easy. _ Louis only sighs. “Harry told me he told you about what happened to him. I wanna know how the fuck you thought that going to a party with your ex could have been something you could pull on him.”

“Okay,” he agrees, and repeats it a couple of times. He can explain everything. “Things haven’t gone like that. It wasn’t as simple as that. I’ll explain the situation, okay? But _ please_, give me some trust and a minute to do that, okay?”

Zayn, on the end of the line, remains silent. Louis takes that as a sign to go on, so he starts by the beginning, explaining the whole night and how they encounter went, how angry he got with Calvin and then with David, too. The argument they had, how betrayed he had felt. He skips the whole part about the kiss, _ obviously, _ not only because it would be digging his own grave, but because that was private. It was their last goodbye. He goes on by explaining why he didn’t inform Harry the first time, how happy he was to hear his voice at midnight, how that wiped out every bitterness from his system.

Zayn lets him do this while being completely silent. He doesn’t even murmurs, not even once; if it wasn’t for the noises Louis hears or from his breath on the mic, Louis would have thought he had hung up.

When Louis is done, after a lot more than one minute, he’s still silent. Louis waits for the jury’s verdict, unnerved, silently praying that Zayn, in his infinite wisdom, can look beyond his affection for Harry and understand him.

“Okay,” he says in the end, after having pondered Louis’ fate. “I understand what happened, and how nothing had happened, too.” Louis lets out a sigh of relief, not even trying to hide it. “And I know Harry is very… touchy, one could say, about this kind of stuff, so it makes sense for him to overreact. I won’t tell him this, but maybe he got overworked this time.” _ Yeah, no shit. _“I’ll talk to him now.”

He sounds ready to hang up, but Louis is still not sure of this.

“Okay, but now he’s convinced you want to… Brainwash him or something, yeah? Wasn’t he saying something about that, before? That I want to do it too and I-”

“That won’t happen,” Zayn cuts him off, sounding bored, almost. “I know you’ve talked and whatever, but I had nights with him, like the single one you had, almost every night for months on end. I know him.”

The _ better than you _goes unsaid.

Suddenly, Louis feels drained. The adrenaline of the fight was keeping him up, but now that is gone, and whatever the outcome of this is going to be, the only thing he can do now is saying _ bye _to Zayn and wait it out.

“I’m- I’m so sorry.” As insulted as he might be, he knows he hurt Harry, even if he didn’t want to. He still did it. “I know it’s… oh, fuck, it’s new year’s eve for you too, I didn’t even say anything about that, his night is ruined and-”

“I know, you’ll redeem yourself,” Zayn sigh. “I’ll talk with him now, I guess he’ll call you back. If he wants to. Or whatever.”

“Fuck, yeah, thank you, and happy new year’s eve, tell him that-”

“Bye, Louis.”

“B-”

Zayn hangs up before Louis can finish his greeting. He stares for a bit at his phone’s screen, now informing him that nearly one entire hour had passed. It takes him a while to recap the whole thing, but it’s too cold for him to stay where he is and brooding about what happened.

Slowly, he walks back into the mansion. He’s ready to get hammered now.

~*~

Harry calls him back at 6.17 am.

Louis is not sure what made him wait for more than four hours, but, just to be sure, he had spent those four hours clenching his phone in his hand, never letting it go.

He’s about to fall asleep, too, because let’s face it: he’s twenty-seven now, he’s going for the frightening 30s. He’s getting old, he’s not used to partying for ten hours straight anymore.

“Hey,” Harry murmurs, quietly.

“Hey.”

They greet each other, softly. Louis went to hide in one of the bedrooms on the top floor. From there he can hear some people still partying downstairs. It’s still completely dark out, and it will be for the next couple of hours.

Everything seems muffled, muted. Harry doesn’t sound angry anymore, just as tired and hungover as he is. They both breathe in their phone’s mics for some moments, not knowing what to say or how to break the silence.

“Was… was everything you told me… Was it real?” Harry asks, after those moments of intimate silence.

Louis nods to himself, ready to get into the situation again. He sits up straighter, and starts:

“Of course it was, love. I never lied to you, not when I said nothing would have happened, nor in saying I didn’t expect this, or-”

“No, not about that.” Harry sounds like he’s about to fall asleep. “I meant, when you said you wanted to come back here? And spend the year with me?” His voice is thin, unsure.

It makes Louis so tired all over again. But at least now he knows what to say, and knows what was the problem in the first place.

“Harry, darling… of course it was real. Of course. It’s what I think, what I feel. And maybe I still don’t have the right words to say it but…” he looks out of the window: still dark. There are only the two of them on the planet, right now. No one else. “When I saw David, I saw with him all my past and everything I left behind. And guess what? I didn’t miss it. At all.” His reflection in the window’s glass smiles. “I realised I made the right decision by leaving. That’s what I meant when I told you I’m happy about all my mistakes- well, all of those I believed were mistakes. They weren’t. They brought me to you,” he breaths out. He looks for his words for a second, then continues: “even if… it destroyed me, it really did, I’m happy David and I broke up. I’m happy we never made a family together.” It feels a bit like beating a dead horse, and a bit like swallowing the toughest pill of his life. “Because now I have something much more important?” He tries, tired. “I mean, I hope that I have it?”

Harry, from the other side of the line, is as tired as he is.

“Louis…”

“But yeah. Can’t wait to be back. Can’t wait to be back with you,” he repeats, but honestly, he would be ready to say these words again and again, just as long as Harry actually believes him. “And I felt these things even before I left to come here, but now I’m certain.”

“You are?”

“I know I made you miserable by saying that I hated your city, especially because of how much it means to you, and by saying how I wanted to be back here, but- but now that I’m here, I understand how much I grew out of this place.” It’s hard to admit this, to admit he doesn’t feel to fit any more in what he considered his home for twenty-seven years. But it’s easier to do it in the dark, on the phone with someone he cares so much about. “This isn’t for me anymore. And fuck, it scares the hell out of me,” he confesses, honest and raw like never before.

Harry huffs a bit of laughter, but Louis knows he got what he meant.

“But I also understood that… as long as you will be with me, there is no reason to be scared. Because ‘my place’ could be also somewhere else,” he ends, trying to look past his reflection on the glass.

He doesn’t want to look at himself, he needs to see the blur between the lines again. But it’s too early, and the reality outside hasn’t been created just yet.

In the silence that follows, Louis tries to find some hints, some noises that could make him understand what is going on in Harry’s brain, but he can only hear his breathing: slow, relaxed. There are no birds where he is. Just the two of them.

“I know I overreacted,” he says, in the end.

Louis’ reflection smiles again. “You did.”

“I know. I was definitely too… _ dramatic_, and I’m sorry. I was completely over the top, I accused you for nothing and I was so mean for no reason, and… Sorry. I… I hope I didn’t ruin your night too much.”

Louis thinks back at just some hours ago, when he drank himself to the edge of a blackout, bitter and angry. It wasn’t how he wanted to spend new year’s eve, but saying this to Harry won’t make any difference by now.

“You didn’t,” he settles on. “If anything, we’ve ruined Zayn’s.”

Harry properly laughs at that, surprised.

“_Y__eah, _he was so annoyed that he had to talk to me and… Well, whatever. I'm serious, I shouldn't have, and I'm sorry. I… I know you’re sincere, now, when you say this.” He exhales. “But I knew you were when you said that at your midnight, too. And it scared the hell out of me, too. To feel so… ready and sure about this.” His voice trembles. “And maybe it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m sure about you, too. And I, I got so scared that this might have got taken away, but… I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, and I’m sorry about that. I've been so cruel.” His voice is strong now, sure. Louis likes it so much more that way.

"The only thing that is important for you to know is that I'm on your side, love," Louis says gently. "We're a team, yeah? We're on the same side." 

"That's... Yeah, I know, I should have known," Harry corrects himself. "I won't let myself go like that again, I promise." 

Louis doesn’t really know what to say or how to replay to that, though; it’s not _ okay, _but it’s… “It’s water under the bridge. We’ll see each other face to face, soon. We’ll be alright, my love.”

He’s not imagining things when he feels Harry’s smiling.

“Yeah. We will be,” he says, voice soft and filled with love. “And, Louis?”

There’s a faint line in the horizon just in front of him. Sunrise will arrive in another hour or so, but Louis can already see its light.

“Yeah?”

“My place is with you, too. So, come back. I’m waiting for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinderen gaan naar school, volwassenen gaan naar kantoor / je bent erg lief / ik mis je -> children go to school, adults go to office / you are very sweet / I miss you  
“Neuken, Ik wist het” -> Fuck, I knew  
“Zayn, Ik zei dat je weg moest gaan.” -> "Zayn, I told you to leave."  
“Je blijft schreeuwen, is er iemand overleden?” -> "You keep yelling, has anyone died?"  
“Ik zei dat je weg moest gaan, Zee. Het is niets dat je zorgen baart.” -> "I told you to leave, Zee. It is nothing to worry about.”  
“Ik ga nergens heen. Vertel me wat er gebeurt, je was een half uur geleden gelukkig.” -> "I'm not going anywhere. Tell me what is happening, you were happy half an hour ago.”  
“Louis is op een feestje met zijn verdomde ex.” -> "Louis is at a party with his fucking ex."  
“hij zei wat” / “Wat er verdomme gebeurt, Harry?” / “Oké, ik zal met deze eikel praten.” -> "He said what" / "What the hell is going on, Harry?" / "Okay, I'll talk to this dickhead."  
*********************************************  
I KNOW this sounds like the last chapter BUT IT’S NOT, the next one will be the last one (probably it will be a shorter one though. Maybe.) Boy, this was Quite Something to write, and I hope you liked it! Oh also, someone told me that I got the time zones wrong (if you're reading this, thank you so much again!): it should have been Harry the first one to celebrate and then Louis, not the opposite. I have no idea how I got that wrong, but I don't think I can fix it now. Either way: CET is one hour ahead of GMT, not behind.  
As always, [ my tumblr ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/), [ the fic post ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/post/625001364010024960/amsterdam-with-you), too, if you wanna share it, save it or anything else.  
It’s nearly done! If I can organise myself with my exams and my personal life and everything else, maybe the next one won’t be so delated (sigh).  
Leave me a comment or anything if you liked this one! Hearing your feedback is everything for me, thank youuu! Hope I’ll see you soon, bye xxxx


	14. 2nd of January - The Bright Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! We’ve come to an end! I’m super emotional about this and I’m gonna write a lot in the end notes (as always) so I’ll just leave you now :) I hope you are going to like this one  
Warnings: mentions of Jay and grieving, Fizzy appears in this chap

“Now, _ this _ could be cool…”

“This looks like out aunt Mary’s closet, come on.”

“Okay, but if we cinch the waist here and-”

“So you agree it looks out aunt Mary’s-”

“Well, yeah, but if we cut the sleeves and then we-”

“Do you even know how to do that?”

“No? That’s why I'm saying _ we_.”

Louis smiles to himself hearing Lottie and Fizzy bickering from the aisle next to him. He keeps brushing by the lines of old clothes, breathing in the air of dust and magic you can always find at thrift shops, looking through the hangers but still not finding anything for himself.

They’ve been at the shop for a while now, and they have pretty much raided it from top to bottom: Lottie got a sewing machine from their grandparents for Christmas and can’t wait to put it to action.

None of them know how to sew but _ all of them _love thrift shopping: they all love vintage clothing, they have a good eye for what something can _become _and they love the excitement you get out of finding a gem in a pile of rubbish, the pride you feel when you get to tell others, _ found this thrifting, is a one-piece kind of deal. _

More than that, it’s just a fun activity they always had together, and one that is lovely to do when Louis will be leaving for Amsterdam again so soon.

Too bad that they’re not actually doing it _together _since their trusty shop in Doncaster didn’t get a decent re-stocking in the men’s section yet, so Louis had done nothing but observe the same boring jumpers and old windbreakers for the past hour, commenting here and there on his sisters’ findings.

They inform him they’re going to the changing rooms _again_, this time to try on the lookalike of their aunt dress on (Louis had to side up with Lottie on that one, the pattern on it was ridiculous and it really didn’t look that savable).

Out of boredom, he heads towards the antique section of the shop, a corner they never touch because it’s usually just dusty chairs and ugly paintings.

Along with the same old boring glasses though, there’s a camera. Louis eyes the changing rooms: his sisters are still busy with their dresses, so he walks to the little tables where various objects are disposed, and takes a better look at it.

It’s an old one, an analog camera like he hasn’t seen in a while; fancy, too: he’s sure that the one they had when he was a kid wasn’t this cool and didn’t have as many settings and buttons.

The takes it in his hands and the first thing he registers is, _ this is ridiculously heavy. _ The second one is, _ Harry would love this. _

The shop is pretty full, so he has to wait a bit before asking an employee how much was for it and buy it: he has no idea if it was expensive or not, and frankly, he doesn’t care that much.

The camera has such a _ Harry _vibe to it, he would have bought it no matter what. It's the magic that comes with it, the awareness nothing like this exists anywhere else. How Harry deserves so many good things in life, so many things Louis would love to give him, and maybe an old, somewhat unique camera, _ still working, _the salesperson told him, could be a good place to start. 

Their staying at the shop is concluded shortly after, when Lottie and Fizzy appear next to him and inform him they’ll get the dress as well, because "_they need something to practice on". _Louis can already imagine it tore apart and then used as a rag, but he’s enough of a supportive big brother to buy it for them despite their protests.

They don’t notice that one of their many bags is his own until they come back home and Louis keeps it for himself.

“You bought something for yourself?” Fizzy asks, delighted.

“Did you? Louis, _ finally_,” Lottie comments, smiling, like Louis is a poor bastard who needs that amount of praise just to have bought something for himself. Well, maybe he does need it, since this isn’t for him. 

"Let us see what is it!" Fizzy continues, curious. They've both sat down in the living room and are looking at him expectantly. 

"Yeah, you bought it without asking for our opinion? Rude," Lottie continues. 

"Umh." Louis turns to them, his bag still in his hands. "It's not something you wear?" 

“It's not?”

“You've got a table there?”

“A Fabergé egg?” Fizzy wonders, and can’t even finish her line before start giggling. 

"Okay but you know _ what_, I've always said their lamps are, uh, quite something-" 

Louis huffs out a laugh before continuing: “No, it's…” he takes it out of the bag. “It's a camera.” He extends it to them, in case they want to have a better look on it. Of course they want to, and the camera is in Lottie’s hands not even a second after.

“A camera?”

“Since when you care about… Photography?” Lottie wonders, turning it over to take a better look at it.

“Shit Lou, this is an analog one,” Fizzy mouths once they see the back of it. “Do you know how to use it?”

“You need a dark room for that,” Lottie pipes up.

“Does it even work? It looks so old.”

“Yeah,_ I know that, _thanks,” damn, when his sisters start talking together there’s no way of interrupting them. “The guy in the shop told me it’s still working. And it's not for me, so…”

Lottie and Fizzy stop their inspection to exchange a look.

“Well…”

“It _was _weird that you were buying something for yourself,” Fizzy observes.

“There was nothing in the men's section,” he reminds them. 

“But you still got a present for someone else,” Lottie notes.

“So… Who's that?” Fizzy places the camera on the coffee table beside her, her attention now completely on Louis. 

They're sitting down on the couch in front of him, their eyes on him. There's no way of escaping this, but, so much more than that, Louis doesn't want to. He doesn’t want to vanish with no explanation again. He doesn't want to get back to Amsterdam and still say nothing about Harry, and it’s both because he’s tired of feeling like a mystery and the people he loves should know something so important about him, and because he wants to talk about Harry to anyone who will listen to him. 

“So…” he starts, leaning on the living room's table. “I haven't told you something, but I… I met a guy in Amsterdam, and… Well, I met him in the sense that we're together now." Suddenly Louis realises how he and Harry never had that specific conversation about their relationship status. He's sure they're on the same page, but he makes a point to himself to mention that somewhere in the future. ”Maybe the situation is still a bit muddy on that, but yeah, I’d say we’re together. So I bought the camera for him. Christmas present, you know? I think he will like it, he's always taking photos of God's knows what."

By the end of his sentence he’s already smiling. He doesn’t know if Harry will like it, but he’s sure he will be more than happy to know Louis had thought about him.

Lottie and Fizzy, on the other hand, have been impassive during his brief explanation, and are now looking at each other instead of at him. They're silently communicating, and to Louis' disappointment, they look like the news didn't touch them in the slightest. 

Not that he was expecting anything big, but they could've faked it, right? This is a big deal for him. 

“… Can't say you look surprised. Or that you care,” he mutters, a bit bitter, and walks over to them to snatch his camera back. Damn, he will have to wrap it up in a present-like manner. He never does a good job on that.

“Lou, well…” Fizzy starts, and Louis turns to look at her. She looks vaguely guilty. “Okay, don't, umh, feel bad about this but maybe-”

“Liam may have already said something to us about this guy,” Lottie cuts her off. 

It takes a second to register. 

“What? Liam?” Louis asks, like he may have heard that wrong. “Went around to talk about me?” 

Lottie has the _audacity _to roll her eyes at him.

“He didn't say much," Fizzy reassures him. “It's just that-”

“No, okay." Lottie cuts her off again, and by the look on her face she's saying, _ let me explain this one. _ She turns to looks at him dead in the eyes and continues: "Lou, you have to get this: you don't talk.” _ Well. _ “We've barely talked during these months. Since you left we barely know anything about you and-”

“_Fuck.” _ In a second, the overwhelming guilt is back. “I'm sorry, _ I am, _I know I haven't called you enough, and I should've been more present, should've been a better-”

“A better brother, yes, Louis, you've already said that.” 

“You had to find your place and adjust to your new life, that's not the point, Lou,” Fizzy interjects, still sweet, still sad.

This isn’t how he used to react, this isn’t how the used to bant together: at any other point of their lives, Louis would have called them out, instead of feeling sorry for himself, he would have teased them, insult Liam a bit more, maybe, made them laugh, not… looking for their compassion or whatever he’s doing right now.

Damn, how he changed. He misses his old self.

“Yeah, the point is _you should tell us _about the guy now, because we do care about you and about what’s going on in your life, shithead,” Lottie concludes, a big grin on her face.

“Oh yeah, you have to. With details, please.”

“We don’t even know his name!”

“Liam told us the bare minimum, and only because we insisted. We wanna know everything.”

“I think we deserve to know everything, right?”

Louis waited for them to stop talking so damn fast and to give him a second to express his opinion, so pardon him for pausing and going back to the source of the problem.

“You talk about too much with someone who's _my _friend,” he mutters.

“Oi, _ your _ friend-”

“Listen, you know how much we've babysat his baby?” Fizzy points out. Well, no he doesn’t know.

“How much time we've spent in his home?”

“So yeah, we'd say we're friends too, now.”

“So, stop beating around the bush!” They’re getting impatient. Despite all, Louis loves their energy. “And tell us about the guy.”

“So…” he starts, leaning back on the table again. “Well, his name’s Harry.”

“_Harry_? Sounds British, innit?”

“Lotts, shush,” Fizzy reprehends her.

He snorts at them, then starts from the beginning, choosing to tell them immediately the bit about the book and the bike, because he knows they will appreciate it and laugh at him a healthy amount. Sure enough, they love that story, and half laughing Louis continues with the march and meeting his friend, _ who by the way is a fashion designer, you want some tips about that dress? I can ask him if you want. _ But they didn’t give a damn about the _friend of the guy_, they want Louis to continue talking about _the guy_.

He jumps to the swing moment, always keeping it vague, because every time he talks about Harry, no matter what, the problem of it all pops up again: how much they’ve argued in just one month, and _why_. And even if Louis had his umpteenth revelation (hopefully his last one) and now knows that the future is _theirs _ (and no matter what it will cost, this is what is worth doing), there’s still to say _how long _it took him to get there, and _why_.

Especially because the pure essence of that _why, _of those doubts and of all that uncertainty, is now sitting in front of him, all big eyes and curiosity.

“Anyway,” he cuts short. “I think this could be something serious.”

It feels monumental to tell his sisters that. Too bad his sisters just frown at that, and say in one voice:

“But you’ve known him for _ a month_?” and “Already, Lou?”

Louis stops himself from saying _a month and a half _and making a full out of himself like in front of Liam.

“True,” he concedes. “But I’m serious about this, and about him. I genuinely think this may be something… yeah, serious.” He shrugs, not really knowing how to describe it. “Something real.”

His sisters must see the pure happiness shining through his eyes, because they finally stop frowning and start genuinely smiling.

“Well, then…”

“Okay! That’s cute.” Fizzy looks radiant about the news now.

“Yeah, that’s kinda beautiful, Lou.”

“And are you happy together? What’s he like?”

“He… well,” Louis let himself collects his thoughts for a second, then decides to join them on the couch. This may become a long conversation. “He’s great.” Words are barely out of his mouth, and he’s already smiling again. “Great with kids, I’ve told you that, right?” a small chorus of _yeah _rises up from his audience. “And charming, so charming. Could make friends with anyone, he’s _that _lovely, and… I don’t know. Makes me laugh way too much, god, something he talks and I can only think, _ you’re so weird, _especially when he says he rambles about his pointless stories and-

“Sounds… Nice?” Lottie is laughing about him, and you know what, _ fair. _

“He is, I swear he is so nice. He has so much enthusiasm in himself, right? I know I haven’t been the most honest ‘round you, but yeah, I wasn’t doing great and when I met him, I swear I started noticing the… _ all the good _ around me again, yeah?” This time the chorus says _aaaw, _ and his sisters look at him tilting their heads, a soft smile on their faces. “I’m just- he’s so good, and so set in making the world around him a better place, it seems. Sure as hell he made _ me _better-”

“Louis, that’s-”

“That’s so beautiful?”

“He _is_,” he confirms, knowing that if they don’t stop him he will keep on talking about Harry for hours. “And he’s so serious, too? Not just a, I don’t know, happy-go-lucky dude who doesn’t care about anything important. Got his head on his shoulders, too.”

“Where did you even find him-”

“He sounds so perfect for you?”

“Nice _and _funny _and _lovely _and _serious? Seriously, where did you find him,” Fizzy mumbles again.

“So you’re good together, right? All of this sounds so amazing, Lou.”

“Oh, _ yeah_, we’re good together, so, so good, it’s just that…” he pauses for a second to think about what to say next, and Lottie and Fizzy immediately frown, surprised by the turn of events. “We have had a lot of problems, also considering it’s been just one month they’ve been a lot. Many fights, too. About… yeah, communications, and different goals, I guess,” _ I guess, _he says, like he wasn’t present while he and Harry were screaming at each other. Lottie and Fizzy are silent now, listening to him. “Because I can’t stop thinking about the fact that yeah, I will come back there and stay there, and we will be alright together and all of that, but-”

“_But? _” Lottie asks, like she can’t find a single reason to put an adversative conjunction there.

“Let him finish, come on.”

“Thank you Fiz, I was saying… That sometimes I’m still not sure that that’s the right decision, you know?” His sisters don’t look convinced. “About staying there, I mean,” he clarifies. “I’m not sure if that’s the right path to take, because, sure, I want to be with him, but I also want to remain here, you know?”

Fizzy doesn’t remain on his side for long, because after Louis says that she frowns as much as Lottie, and asks, confused:

“Stay here… to do what?”

_ Here we fucking go again. _

“What do you mean, _ to do what, _Fiz, you’re my family, right? To be here with you. Where I should stay.”

“Lou,” Lottie starts, and she looks like she’s joking, like none of this is serious. “I was kidding before, you know that right? Like, it would be enough if you called us more often. I wasn’t saying that you should be glued to us.”

“Yeah,” Fizzy immediately goes to support her, but she doesn't look as convinced as she is. Her eyes are fixed on him, like she’s studying him, trying to read behind his words. “We’re happy that you’re here, but it would be enough for us to hear from you a bit more often. Nothing more than that.”

“Okay but…” he sighs, looking down at his hands. He only got two of them, how many battles can he fight? How many times can he explain this? “It’s just that… this is my home, too, right? And since mum he’s not with us anymore, I know I should always have you, all of you, as my priority.” He hears his sisters taking a sharp breath in, and he’s so sorry, he is, because he was sharing a bit of gossip, finally a bit of his personal life, and now they’re discussing something _this _serious.

“I know all she wanted was for us to continue being as close as we were- I mean, as we are?” It hurts to say that. He prays it’s still in the present tense, that it will always be present tense, no matter how many phone calls he misses. Lottie and Fizzy and frowning even more. Louis doesn’t remember when he became so fucking insecure. It’s annoying, more than anything else. “It’s just that, I know I should be with you, and look after you, and even more than that, I shouldn’t start dating someone who’s not in the same city as us, but not even the same fucking _ country_.”

They remain silent for another second, like they’re trying to decide what to say, then they start talking together, saying: “_Looking after us? Louis, we’re not-” _ and “_Mum didn’t mean it like that-” _ and _ “Lou, we still have a dad” _ and “_So what, didn’t you just said that he’s perfect of something-” _

And he can’t really discuss all of that in once, he’s just trying to defend himself when he says back: “Perfect or not, is he more important than you are? I don’t think so, not yet.”

He’s glad Harry will never have to hear this. He knows he wants to go back, he wants to stay with him in a serious, long term type of way, but his sisters told him he’s been silent and reserved to a fault for months, and he wants them to know that he’s not abandoning them. He hasn’t stopped taking phone calls because he has someone now and he has moved on from them or some other bullshit. The thought only makes him want to puke.

“Okay, but what’s the point?” Lottie asks him, openly confused. “Didn’t you say you have to remain there until your contract expires?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“What do you mean, _ so what_,” Fizzy interjects, as confused as his sister. “So, you don’t have to take all these decisions now. You have so much time to grow even more into him. Like, okay, maybe it seems too much and too soon, but if you go back and you keep on being so good together, it’ll make more sense for you to be there, right?”

“And isn’t the job you’re doing there your _ dream job_, Lou?” Lottie asks again, her confusion growing. “Maybe if you go back to working in London you won’t get the same position you have now. How’s all of that worth staying here?” Beside her, Fizzy is nodding.

But the problem for Louis is that he already knows he could stay with Harry for more than whatever his contract says, he already knows he will go back and they will be so, so good together. And he knows what he has to do, what he is going to do, because he thought about it over and over, to a nauseous level, to the point where it was impossible to ignore all the signs he received and understood that as painful as it was, that was the right decision.

But still, he can’t stop wondering, _ and then what? _ He still feels like he’s abandoning his siblings, he’s forgetting them behind, when they’re the most important people on earth for him; no matter how hard he tries, sometimes he still can’t conciliate these two worlds together. The point is that he feels like he should never choose this, not even in theory, so he says:

“Yeah, but the point is that I feel like I should be home. Here, with you,” he precises, his voice shaking.

“... Home with us?” Fizzy wonders, incredulous.

“You don’t have to babysit us anymore Lou, we’re adults now,” Lottie adds, and she sounds like she’s still joking.

“We don’t even live here-”

“Yeah! We wouldn’t even see each other that much anyway-”

“True,” Louis concedes. “But I’ll be _here, _you know? It feels too much like I’m choosing him over you and-”

“You- you’re _ not _-”

“You’re being an _ adult_, and making _ adult _decisions-”

“But… what about, being home? Where I belong?” and he’s genuinely asking, that’s the point. He wants to know what they think about all of this, he _needs _to know.

“Okay,” Fizzy starts, and she sounds… annoyed, almost? She has a serious look in her eyes now, she’s no longer confused about this situation, like she just understood what is the root of the problem and knows exactly how to tackle this. Louis is so impressed by her, always. “Let me understand one thing. When you say here, what do you mean? You keep saying _ home_, but _ whose _ home?”

“Wha…” it takes a moment to realise she’s serious. She’s really asking that. “What do you mean where, it’s just… here, you know?”

But Fizzy is as serious as before, and not understanding at all. “Here?” she remarks, steady. “At Mark’s house? Where you don’t even have a room and you sleep in the guest’s one?”

Louis knows she didn’t say that to be mean, but it still hurts a bit to know he doesn’t have a room here. He knows it made sense when they had to bought the house and it still makes sense now, but _ouch. _

“No,” he still replies, because he didn’t mean _here, _ in this specific house. “Well, I meant…. Here, Doncaster, yeah? Or at least _ here_, England, you know?”

He’s _sure _she understands what he means, _ sure _of it, so he’s not really getting this game she set up. Lottie, sitting beside her, is silently looking at her, apparently studying her attack strategy as much as Louis.

“No, I don’t know,” she replies, instantly, and, well. Maybe Louis is not that sure anymore. “Why here, why Doncaster?”

“What do you mean, _ why, _ Fiz this is our _ home_-”

“But it is _not_. We don’t have the house where we grow up anymore, we sold it. So that’s not home anymore, we don’t have it, we can’t go there. So when you say you wanna stay here, where do you mean?”

“But… it’s not about that, Fiz, come on. You know that here is where I think home is.”

But she’s not sparing him a second, she’s already on again to fight back.

“Is it just because it’s Doncaster? Your friends don’t live here anymore. Where would you stay? With Liam, in Manchester, where he has a girlfriend and a baby?” Sitting next to her, Lottie is nodding at everything she’s saying. _ Traitor. _ “Do you wanna stay with me and Lottie in our ten people dorm, where we can already barely fit?”

Louis is… Louis is _ so _ confused. He’s sure that what he is saying is nothing weird, nothing hard to comprehend, as much as he’s sure she’s being this hard on him on purpose. He can’t see the point she’s trying to make.

“No? It’s not like I have to live with you, under the same roof or anything. Just that it’d like to be near you, somewhere that if something happens I… I can come here to you, you know?”

“You’re in Amsterdam,” Lottie hints. “Not in Antarctica.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but-”

“How long did it take you to come here? Three hours?” Lottie is leaning forwards, elbows resting on her knees, her face open and earnest. “That’s the same time it took you when you used to be in London. It’s just a plane versus a train, really.”

“It’s not,” Louis cuts her off, a bit too biting for the tone of the conversation, but it’s really _ not_. If he was in London when Kai was transferred to the hospital, for sure he would have been able to visit him and his family. He knows, _ he knows _that Liam told him to not come because of other reasons and not because he was in another country, but Louis is still sure of this.

Sure, the problem was how distant he had become, and about how Liam could survive without him, but he still hasn’t stopped thinking about that. He could have done something, and he didn’t.

“I’m so far away, there. I can’t just jump on a plane with no notice like I would on a train or a carpool, it doesn’t work like that. It’s not the same thing at all,” he repeats, and maybe he’s being too dry with them, because Lottie relaxes back on the sofa, as if to put a distance between them.

She could look bothered for anyone else, but Louis knows she’s ready to fight now: chin up, assertive, ready. Damn, they’re all so similar. Their mother blessed all seven of them with that cold, stern look. But before she adds something else, Fizzy turns their attention on her again.

“What I meant is,” she starts, with a pointed tone. “You know there is a difference between _home _and _house_, right? You know that when you say _ ‘I wanna stay home'_, you don’t mean under the same roof, because that’s not the point, that’s not being at home.” _ Damn, _ she’s so serious. Both of them resemble their mum so much, when they get this honest. “You can be under the same roof with someone and feel miles away from them.” _ That _sadly gets Louis’ attention, because that’s exactly what it felt like to live with David during the last months of their relationship. 

“You just said so yourself, so _you know _there is a difference. Because being at home is loving each other, being there for each other, calling each other, telling each other your struggles. Not living together, and not even living close. That’s not what being a family means. We’re still a family even if you’re not around the corner, Lou.”

Oh, okay, now Louis sees where this points to, and going by how Lottie is nodding beside her little sister, she must have gotten on track, too.

“That doesn’t mean much, not when we know you love us so much. So, if you know there is this difference, don’t you see that nothing changes if you go to stay in Amsterdam? Even if you don’t know for how long? Because the important bit is that we know you love us. And Lou, we know that.” _ Fuck, _ Louis is going to cry again. He already feels the tears pricking his eyes. “And we know you will always be present for us. Because, _ Lou, _ we know that.”

She’s not as austere as she was before, trying to convey an extra serious tone to the conversation, now she’s as touched as he is. She bites the inside of her cheek (_Louis wonders if he should tell her to stop, her dentist has been strick about that and- oh, who cares)_, and after a second she leans forward and takes his hand. There’s no way Louis is _not _going to cry now.

“Of course,” he says, voice shaky, because they have to certain of that. That’s the most important thing. “Of course I will always be there for you.”

He glances at Lottie, telling her with his eyes to get closer to them. She scots over, and Louis takes her hand as well.

“Lou, _ this _ is what mom meant. That we have to support and love each other, we have to keep being good brothers and sisters and look after each other. So the point is not if you’re in Amsterdam or Doncaster, the point is…. you have to call us when you’re feeling down-” her voice cracks. Louis squeezes her hands tighter.

“Yeah,” Lottie agrees, while Louis keeps whispering, _ “I know, I know, I know.” _

“Because you can’t only be the big brother who listens to us. We’re here for you too, you… this can’t be a one-way thing, you know?” Fizzy’s tears are still gathered in her eyes, unmoving. Louis’ ones have already flown down his cheeks.

“We wanna know how you feel,” Lottie says, squeezing his hand. “You can always talk to us. Always.”

“We’re here for you, too.” 

“So you… You shouldn’t feel like you can’t call us because you’d bother us with your problems-”

“You’d _ never_-”

“Like, we didn’t know anything about this guy.” Lottie is smiling now, a bit wobbly, and Louis knows she wants to make the atmosphere lighter again. She loves heart-to-heart chats just like him, but she wasn’t expecting one. “We didn’t know anything about how lost you’ve felt for months.”

“And about all these obstacles you had found while trying to be with him. And-”

“I mean we still don’t know about those…” Lottie intervenes again. “You just brushed past them. But if you want to expand…” she waves her hand as to say, _ ‘you’re welcomed to go on, we want the gossip’_.

“Sure.” Fizzy is smiling again as well. “And all the major problems turned back to here, so we’ve could have talked about all of that, too.”

“But you’re doing your first year in _ Uni_,” Louis protests, despite knowing he will never win this round. But he can’t just sit there and remain silent, they have to understand where he came from. “I’m _ twenty-seven_, living in another city, I can’t go bother my little sisters about _ boys_.”

“You’re not a bother-”

“And we always want the _tea_,” Fizzy adds, winking at him.

Louis sighs, accepting to delay this other conversation for another bit. It’s alright, though: he gets what they mean, and he’s sure they understand him as well. They only have to synch up again, like they always have.

“Yeah,” Lottie agrees, immediately. “And this is not even about boys or gossip. This is about a legit crisis you had, and went through alone. Sure, we wanna know about the funny stuff, but we could have also reminded you about the rest. We could’ve had this chat months ago, since you were _that _worried over this, over your living situation, over us. We could’ve told you exactly this months ago.”

“Damn, Lou, we could have.”

Fizzy bites her lip, and Louis hates that she looks _ guilty _over that. As if any of this could ever be any of their faults, when it’s only his own's, and he’s quick to tell them so.

“Okay,” Fizzy shrugs, like she’s set to carry some of the blame on her shoulders. “But if we had any of this chat in, I don’t know, November, we could’ve reminded you months ago that it’s love that makes us a family. So, no matter how distant you could be, we’ll always love each other and we’ll always be a family.”

“So… if you love this lad as well… go be with him,” Lottie suggests, and it’s so crazy, because _is really that simple? _

Louis knows he will go back and he will do anything that is in his power to be with Harry, and stay well together, but he just can’t stop wondering: _ was all of this so simple_? Which is dumb, too, because this is not simple at all. Crying and hold his sisters’ hands is not simple, opening up about their feelings is not simple, knowing he had fucked up with them and with his communication with them is not simple.

But apparently, their affection is. Apparently, love _is _this simple.

“I’ll just… So I’ll just… go?” he still feels a little dumb, almost as if he’s asking permission; but more than that, he’s a bit astounded.

_ When did his little sisters become so wise, _ is the thought he keeps having. _ Since when they’re the ones holding his hands and comforting him, and not the opposite, _reels in his mind.

“Louis,” Fizzy starts, and she has a smile in her voice. “Planes exist. You’re behind a tiny bit of sea, that’s it.”

“You could come here with a train or a car, too, if you’re _ that _ worried about hopping on things.” Fiz and Louis turn to Lottie, confused. “With the Channel Tunnel? _ Don’t look at me like that- _ ” that gets a burst of laughter out of Louis. “I mean, it’s literally anything you want. We’re _ that _close.”

Louis huffs another laugh at that, a short, breathy one that sounds almost like a hiccup. Or almost like he’s forcing himself to not cry too much over his little sisters. One of the two.

“You girls… You grew up a lot since last time I’ve seen you, didn’t ya,” he breaths, just for the sake of saying something _not as _heavy.

He lets go of their hands, using his own to sweep his tears away and then drying them over his jeans. The tears don’t stop flowing down, though, so all in all is a bit useless, and he laughs, stupidly and for no reason, a bit embarrassed at how his cheeks keep getting wet.

_ This feels a bit like that Greek bloke and the eagle, _ he thinks, and he has to snort again. Lottie and Fizzy don’t really know what he’s thinking, but they reach out to hug him regardless.

“I… I know I said this a million time, but I’m sorry for not being present during these months,” it’s the first things he says, as soon as he’s able to speak again, and his sister go back to their seats. He said sorry so many times already, and it’s not like him, _ none of this is like the old Louis, _but maybe that lad is gone and he has to just accept it. The only thing the New Louis wants is for his siblings to feel loved. That’s it. “For you, for the twins… When I’ll come back I won’t be as much as a dickhead, I promise,” he adds, sticking his pinky up in the air, just like when they were little kids.

“I mean… We’re sorry too,” Fizzy replies immediately. Louis doesn’t know how to tell her that sometimes is alright if only one person is wrong in an argument.

“You don’t have to be sorry for any of this. I got too lost in my own head, and that’s on me.”

“Yeah, but… We said we would have visited you, and we haven’t,” Lottie reminds him, as if that has the same weight of everything they’ve discussed until now.

“And we could have called you more, too, for example. So, some of this blame is to share.”

Louis rolls his eyes. He shouldn’t, but he can’t help himself.

“Calling the twins can only be on me, though. Calling you, too. We’re at different ages, it’s okay for us to have different responsibilities. And also, you’re at Uni. Fiz, you’re in your _first year_,” he stresses, turning to look at her. “You’ve got so much to do, with assignments and lessons and internships, it’s not like you can do whatever you want, like visiting me.”

“Okay, and you have a full-time job, babes.” _ This is a lost cause. _ “So don’t criticise yourself so much.”

“Okay,” he surrendered. “We’re even then.”

They’re not even at _all_, but go figure. Lottie looked like she wanted to deck him ten minutes ago, and now she’s smiling at him with her whole face, just like when they were little kids and he was a hero for them.

“Ok, so it’s set?” Lottie’s eyes sparkle. Louis is lost. “We can organise something, yeah? To visit you,” she specifies, when Louis kept frowning at her. He feels like his focus got slightly better recently, but it still fails him from time to time.

“Oh, sure,” he’s quick to agree. “_Mi casa es tu casa _and all of that, you know how it is.”

“For easter, maybe. Or in spring,” she wonders, already picturing their holiday.

_ Business majors_, Louis thinks, smiling. _ Always with a plan in mind. _

“So we can meet your guy,” Fizzy smiles, too, joining the holiday daydream.

“So when can see all the cool places in Amsterdam, more like,” Lottie laughs.

“Sure you can,” Louis repeats. “Whenever you want, really, just tell me and-”

“So we can bring you a piece of home there,” Fizzy continues, still smiling, now leaning back on the sofa, relaxed. “So you can see how you’re home wherever you are-”

“And as long as people love you,” Lottie concludes.

_ I said I wouldn’t cry again, _it’s all Louis can think before he has to hide behind his hands again. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, and can hear them laughing at him, mocking him gently for always being the most sensible one out of all of them.

They hug again, and shortly after Lottie excuses herself, saying she has a call to make. Louis is sure she means Sam, but it could also be an excuse to get a breath of fresh air. In any which way, Louis doesn’t blame her.

Louis and Fizzy remain sitting on the sofa, both looking in the same direction, silent.

Louis is still so, so overwhelmed by emotions, and he has nothing witty to say just to break the silence: he just stays there, with his tears drying up on his cheeks.

Fizzy respects him having his moment, smiling a bit to him out of the corner of his eyes, still teary-eyed as well. They remain in silence together for a bit, because both of them know there’s no point in having an empty chat just after such an important one. They have no one to impress.

Louis knows too that Fizzy has always been very sensitive and smart, empathic to a fault, sometimes, and now she knows he needs this moment and won’t bother him. They’re so similar.

“There’s something more?” she asks, or more like, she suggests, after a soft pause.

Louis always connected so well and so effortlessly with her: it was her patience and her quiet to bring them closer together, to always let the other grow, to always give support, love and a hand to hold.

“Yeah,” he has to admit, always soft, always gentle. “When did you and your sister become so wise?” he has to ask, and even if he’s half-joking he wants to know.

Of course they had their heads on their shoulders before Louis left them, but he didn’t expect _ so much _ from them. Maybe because they’re still and they will always be his little sisters, the ones he has to and _ wants to _look after, but he never could have imagined being so taken care of by them.

Fizzy, though, only smiles.

“No, really,” he insists. “I always knew you were so damn smart, but this-”

“I think we all had to grow up a bit too fast after mum passed,” she interrupts him, still gentle. “And this is the most important thing she taught us: to be there for each other.”

“Yeah.” The lump in his throat feels like it will never go away. Louis is starting to learn how to breathe around it, though. “You will always be the top priority, for me.”

“And you for us, too. I know- _ we _ know you feel this duty to look after us a lot over yourself, but we have the same responsibility for you, too.” Before Louis can open his mouth to protest, just a little bit, to remind her once again that his one _ has to be _bigger than theirs, she continues: “Point is, you don’t have to be… scared to grow. You’re not leaving us. You’d never know what you can find. And you can’t leave what you already have found.”

Louis let his head rests on the sofa, gaze lost in the room.

“I think that’s what happened already,” he murmurs, soft. “About the growing. I... I would have never thought of finding someone as incredible as Harry somewhere I had decided I couldn’t be okay. I tried so hard to convince myself, you know?” he turns to her, and finds her already looking at him. “Kept telling me over and over how much I hated everything and everyone. That I want to be back, but because I thought here was the only place where I could ever be alright.”

He sighs, looking down and his hands again. They’re still two, but this time he forces himself to think, _ how many things I’ve already built with them. How many more I will create. _

Fizzy tilts her head the tiniest little bit. “But… so why you’re still like this?” she wonders. “I can see you’re still not okay with all of this.”

“It’s that…” Louis sits up straighter. “Despite it all, even if I know you love me, and Amsterdam is not as evil as I wanted to believe, it’s still so heavy, yeah? There’s still so much... _ weight _ I feel over me.” The desperation in his tone increases. The weight doesn’t let him breathe, think, be rational. It doesn’t let him focus or listen. “And there are moments when I feel like I don’t know how to fight it. I don’t know if I could ever carry it.”

“Louis, _ Louis_,” she calls him again when he doesn’t turn to her. When he does, she looks concerned. “Stop,” she commands, assertive, serious. “Louis, have you forgotten?” Despite her voice being earnest, there’s a smudge of pleading in it.

Louis is lost, again.

“What?” he wonders, exhausted.

“Louis,” she breathes, wavering.

“_The weight of the world _ _  
_ _ is love._” 

Oh.

Well, he _ had _ forgotten. After their mum passed away, he had taken upon himself to tell his siblings the sweetest things he could, to always remind them of the everlasting love that kept existing between them, between the world itself.

It’s hard to connect with the world, when you just want to rest and slow down, but it doesn’t stop spinning for no one. Bonds start slipping, reality becomes hazy. Louis knows that putting on himself to look after so many people is what saved him, in the end.

And with Fizzy in particular it has been through quoting poems, both of them, back and forth. There were times when both of them thought it was excessive, pretentious, even, but the love for literature was something they always had in common, and _ "the weight of the world is love" _ had become something both of them kept close to their hearts, and it had became one of their favourite.

And now, Louis had forgotten.

“I- I'm sorry,” he stammers out, _ how could I, there’s something sacred left? Anything at all? _ “I-”

“Don't be,” she cuts him off. “That's not the point. How does it continue? What else does it say?” she nudges him, their elbows close.

Louis closes his eyes. He has those words printed on his eyelids, for how many times he had read, quoted, said them.

_ "Under the burden _ _  
_ _ of solitude, _ _  
_ _ under the burden _ _  
_ _ of dissatisfaction _

_ the weight, _ _  
_ _ the weight we carry _ _  
_ _ is love." _

He whispers, easily as he was reading them, as if he had done nothing but quoting them daily.

“There you go.” Fizzy is smiling outside his close eyes. She has tears in her eyes again, and Louis can see how tired she is. It’s morning, yet. He will never learn. “We’ll try to remind you this, as often as possible. We’re here for you.”

Despite everything, that makes him smile. “One phone call away,” he reminds her.

“Yeah. And it’s not just that, it’s… if you’re feeling particularly homesick and want to come here for a weekend, you can. You… you don’t have to feel like you’re trapped there. No more. And there are a lot of… hard things to go through, for all of us, but if we love each other we can fight them together, okay?”

“Of course,” he agrees, and he’s tired. He wonders what they will do with the rest of the day, when they’ve been this open. He wonders what they will do with the few days they’ve left together. “I’ll always share your weights, if you’ll want me to.”

Fizzy just smiles again. She has homework to do, probably, exams to prepare. Louis should ask her about that, about her roommates and boys, maybe, and about how exciting it is to finally live in a city as big as Manchester.

He will do it. They have the time for it.

“And this Harry…” she lingers, looking for her words. “I think he might love you a lot, too, to convince you to do something as… drastic as this. Going to live somewhere else, _ you_,” they both snort, just a little bit. _ Fuck, _ Louis thinks, _ he may really do. _“To convince you to do something so… Different, yeah? So outstanding. No one could ever have convinced you of that. But I’m glad he did. It must really mean something, this way.”

“I think he might,” Louis murmurs, and he’s smiling again. Fizzy is right, he would have never even thought about going anywhere except where he already was. Harry didn’t even try to persuade him, though. Louis did everything himself, which can only mean- “And I think I do, too,” he confesses. Nothing big happens, after that. The universe probably already knew. “I really think we’re meant to be, me and him. Made for each other, you know?”

Fizzy is still smiling. “I hope I will, more like,” she tries to joke, a bit spent after the long conversation. “Go to him, then,” she repeats. “This world is yours, if you want it to be. Go be with him.”

When Louis hugs her again, he promises once more that he will never leave any of them. It’s not going to change anything for them. Fizzy, hugging him back, reassures him that they always knew.

~*~

Louis starts a FaceTime call distracted, prompting his phone up to some books and making sure he will be in the frame for when Harry will pick it up. He’s folding his clothes and packing up to go back to Amsterdam: his flight is tomorrow, and he’s not entirely sure of when all his time with his family passed.

When he’s turned away from the screen, his phone stops ringing. Confused, he turns around, and sees Harry hang up on his call. Properly frowning now, he walks up to it to try again, but before he can Harry is calling him through a normal phone call.

“Hi, love,” he says, a hint of confusion still in his tone.

“Hey _schatje_,” Harry breathes. He sounds happy, light, and Louis instinctively smiles at that. “Let's not FaceTime, you mind? What about just a phone call?” he asks.

Louis frowns again, but Harry sometimes is just plain strange, so he doesn’t push. “Sure, but why? I miss your face,” he still can’t help but ask.

Harry giggles. “_Awww_, you do? That's cute, Lou.”

Louis stares at the empty room, with a pair of joggers this in his hands, only half folded. “... You're not responding,” he notices. He throws them into his luggage, without even getting close to it. He’s getting antsy by folding so much clothes, laundry has always been his least favorite domestic activity.

On the other side of the line, Harry is stammering.

“Because, umh, I... I have a surprise for you,” he ends up saying.

Louis stops again, this time with a jumper in his hands.

“You have a surprise,” he imitates him. He was ready to drop it, but now he’s intrigued as to why Harry is acting like that.

“Yeah! I got a, umh, a face tattoo!” Harry exclaims. “And, yeah, wanted to show it in person.”

Louis snorts and places his jumper back on his bed. _ Where did he even find this guy? _

“Did you? Wow, that’s bold. On your forehead, maybe?” he suggests.

“Of course. It says-”

“_I'm a pain in the arse_?”

“No!” he giggles again. “It says, umh, _ ‘contain precious cargo’ _\- no wait, it-”

“Harry, I-” Louis can act tough as much as he wants, but he’s laughing out loud by now. “God, love, all your tattoos are puns. This is not even a good one.”

“Yeah,” he whines, and Louis knows he’s pouting. Honestly, he can’t wait to kiss him on that stupid forehead of his.

“Like the one on your stomach... How was it?” he continues, trying to remember the right words. “_ Vlinders_, maybe?” He stares at the beige t-shirt he just picked up from the laundry basket. This one is Mark’s. He chucks it on his bed with little care and picks another one up.

“Oh wow, do you listen to me when I speak?” Harry is laughing again. “That’s incredible. _ Absurd_.” He’s still laughing.

“You’re such a cheeky little sh-”

“I wanted to kiss you there, you know?” he cuts him off, not rudely. He sounds dreamy, almost, like he’s just relaxing in his bed, in this cold January morning, talking to his ceiling and hearing Louis’ responses from within himself. “There, on the sofa, while we were smoking. We were so close, I just… I was sure it was gonna happen.”

Louis smiles again, a softer, private one this time. He feels warm.

“Yeah, I figured. You weren’t that subtle.” He puts one t-shirt back, then decides he’s done with packing for now, and goes laying on the bed. “I wanted to kiss you too,” he confesses. It feels good to finally say it.

He hears Harry clicking his tongue. “Really? But you didn't,” he sounds a bit accusing, like he doesn’t really believe him.

“I knew you were about to kiss me, so I went to your toilet and had a freakout. You were so…” he throws an arm on his face, and still smiles in the curve of his elbow. That night feels so far away, now. “Unashamed. Ready. I wasn't.”

There’s a silence from both ends, in which Louis enjoys Harry’s slow breaths.

“I wanted to kiss you when we were looking at the light installation, too,” he says, in the end, softly, like he’s admitting something so private he’d never thought he would say it. “The pink one about the mouth. I was sure it was gonna happen that night, sooner or later.”

Louis doesn’t say again, _ I knew, _because it feels out of place. He stares at the ceiling a bit more and tries to remember that night: their arms pressed together, how cold it was, how sad and desperate he had been for days, and how so much better he was as soon as he saw Harry.

How he thought about David, looking at that installation, and just how he wanted for that moment to be over.

“I wanted to kiss you on that night we celebrated Zayn,” he says, instead. He likes this confession moment they’re having right now.

“_Did you?_” Harry _screeches _in his ear, excited, with a refound energy, changing the atmosphere of their chat. “Really? I thought you didn't like me! I was so sure of it. Had to have a chat with Zee, trying to just, I don’t know, accept it, trying to move on and… I mean, it didn’t happen. _Obviously_.”

Louis feels a burst of laughter in his chest at that image. He’ll have to talk to Zayn, when he’ll come back, even just to say that everything between him and Harry is okay now, and he won’t have to hear Harry whining about him anymore. He’s buzzing to become his friend, too, if the situation ever occurs. Zayn is just so cool. 

“Oh, I did,” he admits, and still, it feels good to say, There are no more secrets between them. “I liked you already too much. It scared me a lot, I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

There’s another pause, and Louis can hear Harry smiling, giddy and satisfied, finally knowing how the feeling had been mutual most of the time.

“Okay wanna know something?” he starts and then pauses again immediately after. “Oh, no, wait, maybe you will find it disrespectful, but-”

“Disrespectful??” Louis repeats, surprised. What a big word, and also what a weird sentiment he could ever have towards him. “You gotta tell me, now,” he pushes, intrigued and impatient.

Harry sighs in between his laughter, trying to compose himself, then he complies: “Okay, okay, umh… You know that night you invited me to eat stew at yours?”

Louis blinks. He wasn’t expecting this.

“Of course I do.”

“I… God I feel kinda stupid now, to say this, but… I thought it was a date? Yeah,” he adds, with a hint of regret, when Louis vocalizes his surprise. “That's why I was... So overdressed and didn't know what to do when... I mean, I-”

“Harry, oh my-” Louis interrupts him, laughing. Okay, he wasn’t expecting this, probably because that day had been swept under the rug for him and he didn’t want to think about it more than necessary, but the whole image now is pretty ridiculous. They were on even more different mindsets, there. Louis hadn't noticed anything that could’ve pushed Harry in that direction. “It's not disrespectful, I'd find it cute,” he continues, and he’s sincere. It must’ve been a shock for him to picture his evening one way and then find out something so drastically different waiting for him. “I hope our next dates will be a little classier than eating stew at home, though.”

“Shut up,” Harry mumbles, clearly still embarrassed. “I was hoping so much that you were asking me out. I liked you so much and I thought you didn’t, like I just said, so I was hoping you changed your mind or something. Felt like a tool to arrive there and find you... Well... Grieving, you know,” he finishes still mumbling.

Louis just keeps on smiling. What a… genuine mistake one could make. They had some misunderstanding going on, apparently, even if he wasn’t aware of it. He’s eager to know more about how everything went down from Harry’s perspective. He wants to know everything. He just can’t wait to be back.

“Anyway, crazy I'll get to take you on so many dates, and I’ll get to kiss you again in a few days,” he says, still half daydreaming, picking their old convo back. “And properly, this time, with no afterthoughts.”

“And who says you can?”

_ What a brat. _

“Mmmh, you're right, I'll dump you once I'll take a look at you,” Louis goes with the flow, and hears Harry gasps. “Face tattoos are a bit much for me, sorry love.” He stands up from his bed and takes a look at his room again: there’s a mess everywhere he looks, his bags are only halfway packed. “You didn't like your right arm? Why do you keep that one completely blank for?” He asks, stepping towards the laundry basket to do some more tidying. He had wondered about that, but never found the right moment to ask.

The answer arrives after some more seconds of intense stammering.

“That's, uh. That's for my kids.”

Louis stops in his tracks. He can feel the new jumper he picked up slipping out of his hands, but he doesn’t care about that now. He remain frozen, his hands held stretched out, his phone caught between his ear and his shoulder.

“W-What?” He's shivering.

“Can't have them and be already full everywhere, y'know?” Harry rushes to explain, voice strangled. “Need some space for them, too. I, uh, I like tattoos of names, for example, you know?” he tries, sounding shaken up. “Those would be cute. Or, well, important moments. I just, I wanted to leave some space for them,” he offers, voice wavering, unsure.

Louis in all of this had remained still, standing in the middle of his room, too many clothes scattered around him, his mind going a thousand miles per hour.

So apparently Harry wants kids, uh? He wants them so much and he’s so sure of it he left his entire right arm blank, just for filling it up with tattoos for them.

_Them_, he also said. Not only Harry said _kids_, he said _them_, plural. So, what’s that? How many, and how (_didn't he said he never thought about adopting_, _is he thinking about a surrogate?_) and from where, too, and-

Louis still hasn’t replied. Harry is silent, too.

“Why you didn't tell me?” it’s the only thing he can get out. Weirdly enough, to cover all his happiness that is too scared to shine through, there’s a thick layer of uncertainty. Betrayal, even, if he feels particularly dramatic. “You know how important-”

“I know! I know, of course I do,” Harry rushes to explain. “And that's why, I- didn't want to freak you out.” _ Freak me out? _ Louis wants to scream. “Or for you to like me just for that.” Oh, okay. Sadly, Louis can see his reasoning behind that. “I, I don't know. Are- are you mad at me?” he scrambles out, remorse clear in his voice. Louis can hear him biting his lip. “Should have I told you sooner? I wasn’t trying to, I don’t know, lie to you about it, I’d never, and, and, oh god _ I’m not doing it now_, it’s just… I’ve tried to find the right moment and it never came, can you see how is it?”

He sounds desperate, and it probably is because Louis is still not replying.

He has moved to sit on the side of his bed, a smile so big on his face he’s looking at the ground, scared of the world seeing him like this.

Can it really be? Is this real?

And he can’t help but to think how crazy is it, to think he didn’t have anything to discover anymore, no more surprises, that he would have came back to Harry and be alright with him in a reality where he already knew everything.

But that’s not real, because in everything there’s more to it, there’s a universe you don’t know yet. Things can unravel only when you give them the space to do so.

And in Harry, too, there’s something so big, so incredibly earth-shattering that he never knew, and isn’t that amazing? How one thinks they’re done discovering people, when people can always surprise you. And sometimes, they surprise you with something so beautiful and perfect Louis didn’t even let himself dream about it, because he got heartbroken once, and it was enough to stop himself from daydreaming, from hoping, from starting a conversation.

“Mad? Me?” He stutters out, because he has to reassure Harry that everything is alright between them, even more than alright, but he doesn’t have the words to do so, at the moment. “Love, it’s… Of course not. I would never be angry with you, for sure not for something as personal as this, and-” he hates that he can hear a sigh of relief down the line. He will make it up for him. “I mean, you… wanting to have kids-” _ oh my god, is it real? Is it? _“-it's not about me, so sure, it’s good you’ve told me just when you wanted to and-” he’s rambling. “It’s just…” he doesn’t have the fucking words here with him, but he will find them. “It’s just that I can't wait to see you. I miss you too much.”

And he goes back to thinking: _ can it really be? _ Can he really be this lucky, that everything ended up fitting perfectly? Could this be _ it_? Is Harry really this perfect, that he can stop anguish about something he was miserable about for _ years_? 

But he stops himself immediately after, because it’s too soon to get caught up in that again. But the difference from last time is still there: this time he won’t wait for years to ask properly, and when the moment will arrive he _ knows _they can simply have a conversation about it. He feels giddy.

So, instead, he just says: “I- yeah. I can’t wait to see you, and to kiss you, even on that tattoo of you.” He hears Harry laughing, faintly, and he’s glad he’s not as nervous as before. “Got you a present, hope you’ll like it,” he adds, just to say something that’s not stammering.

“_Did you_?” Harry screeches again, and he sounds out of himself with joy. Louis can feel he is glad he was given an outlet to change topic, if he wanted to, and immediately grabbed it. “And what is it?”

“Do you know how surprises work, don’t you?”

“Ugh,” Harry whines. “Whatever. Will I like it?”

Louis takes a look at the package in his bag, wrapped up in too many soft layers. “Yeah, I’m sure you’ll like it. Hope you got something for me, too.”

Harry snorts, and throws himself in a tangent about how he wanted to buy him some jewelry, then changed his mind, and then about Zayn, and about how they’re the messiest when it comes to them and their way too many accessories.

Louis listens to him in a state of half daze, still up in the clouds for what Harry told him, folding his clothes in a mechanical way and laughing about all the little things he gets to know and discover about this amazing man. This amazing man he’s _ coming back home _for.

“Anyway,” Harry says, stopping himself from rambling more. “When will I hug you? When are you landing?” He sounds so dreamy again, and Louis wants nothing more than laying down on his same bed and dream with him.

“My plane will land at 10 pm tomorrow, so I’ll be in Amsterdam around 11 pm and something, I believe, with the time to take the luggage and calling a taxi-”

“You’ll take a taxi? Posh.”

“Shush, I’ll be dead on my feet, I already know,” he sighs. Earlier he had reminded Ernest and Doris that he was going to leave again, and they sobbed on him for more than half an hour straight. He had no idea how to mend their little hearts after that, so he bought them some books and way too much ice cream. He’s not looking forwards to do it again tomorrow. “We can meet that same evening, if you want, but I’ll probably be too tired to be of any company. Maybe it’ll be better the morning after, yeah?”

“It’s perfect either way for me, Lou. I just wanna see you,” Harry says, sincere.

“Aww,” Louis cooes, in a lieu of saying, _ I just wanna see you too, I don’t care about the rest. Even just for taking a nap together, I’d be down for that. _

“Yeah, I mean, you just… just send me a text about how tired you are when you land, and if you wanna go straight to sleep or not,” he proposes, pragmatic. “For me it’s good either way, really, just let me know.”

“Will do, love.” Louis looks around: his room is still a mess, he still has to pack and say goodbye to everyone. He will have time, it’s only the morning of the day before, but it hurts his heart to know his time here is already over.

“And Harry? One last thing,” he calls his attention before they say their goodbyes. He’s been practicing this, so he say, clearly and with his best pronunciation: “_Ik kan niet wachten tot ik thuis ben_.”

Harry, though, doesn’t react like he was wishing, and just say, distracted: “Aw, that’s nice.” Louis turns to frown to his own phone, even if it Harry won’t see him. “Hey, you know that in Dutch there’s the same difference between _ house _ and _ home _ that there is in English?” _ Oh, so that’s where was the problem. _ “I mean, there a lot of words to say that, but yeah, you just said '_can’t wait to be home', _ but maybe it would be better something like, '_Ik zal blij zijn als ik mijn flat weer zie'_, which is '_can’t wait to be… in my flat'_, yeah.”

Now Louis has to smile, amused for the misunderstanding for which Harry is so set to think of himself so lower than where Louis would always put him.

“Can’t wait for you to be back, though!” Harry continues, still happy, still oblivious.

Louis promises himself Harry will never doubt himself or the love he has for him ever again, and says:

“Yeah, I know that difference exists, love. So yeah, I meant what I said: I can’t wait to be _home_. Can’t wait to be back _ home _ to you.” His smile is splitting his face. “Ik kan niet wachten tot ik _thuis _ben,” he repeats, stressing the importance of the _thuis _word there.

The silence, and then the avalanche of words that follow are enough for Louis to let go of any of his current task and just focus on following whatever Harry is rambling down the line. He can hear his tears through his voice, but he’s not doing any better either: they leave each other after having repeated _soon, I miss you, it’s only tomorrow, home _way too many times.

With his hands now empty and a new headache for the too many emotions, Louis starts packing again, this time quickly and efficiently.

Oi, he just wants to get back. He just wants to be in Harry’s arms again.

~*~

Louis lands in Amsterdam feeling dazed.

He has his goodbye to all his family at the airport and they all cried way too much, him particularly, because he’s too soft for this life. His bigger sisters tried to make fun of him for it, to lighten up the tone, but they still ended up crying over each other like he was going to part from them for eternity. 

If anything, it helped him to contextualize what Liam, as well as Lottie and Fizzy had told him: he’s not going to the other side of the planet, or to another one altogether. It took a whole lot of sniffling, but in the end he succeeded in saying goodbye to them.

Thank god there was only his family there, since he had already said goodbye to his friends and to Liam in private, some days prior, before Liam went back to Manchester again with his family. Louis probably wouldn’t have had the strength to leave them all together there, under those pitiless fluorescent lights.

He had to turn their back to them and embark alone: he nearly missed his flight, for how long the goodbyes went on, and he took the plane while still sniffling, trying his hardest to not disturb the girl sitting next to him. So now that he’s here he is dead tired, with a headache pounding in his brain, and he’s sad as fuck.

He truly just wants a cuddle.

He walks up to the baggage reclaim slowly, without a care in the world, just trying to settle in again in this space, this atmosphere.

He feels like he’s in a foreign place again, but drives away the thought, knowing it’s just the melancholy. Also he never loved airports, and he’s not interested in getting familiar with this one in particular.

While he’s waiting for his suitcase he sends Harry his promised texts. He’s too tired to even try to not be honest, and just says: 

_ hey love, just landed _ _  
_ _ I’m dead on my feet but I still would love to see you _ _  
_ _ you can come at mine if you want, we could watch a movie or something, I don’t know _  
_ even just napping sounds great atm _ _  
let’s have a cuddle, I don’t care about the rest xxx_

He sees the checks going blue and Harry not replying. He doesn’t think much of it and just slips his phone back into his pocket, trying to spot his suitcase and finally get home. 

Just a bit later he’s already out of the terminal, walking slowly while trying to read the signs to get a taxi. He’s walking alongside one of the walls, knowing he’s being too slow to have a stroll in the middle of the airport, while people around him are all running to various degrees.

That’s why, when he feels someone nudging his luggage, he gets a bit antsy. He’s not going to walk any faster than that, so he just moves a little bit to his right and continues. He checks his texts again: still no answer from Harry. Maybe he fell asleep.

When the nudging happens again, he moves again, but when it happens for the third time he turns around, annoyance built inside him, ready to go off to this fucking stranger who’s this rude _and for what, _Louis is too sad to tolerate any of that right now, and-

Well.

He doesn’t start screaming, but just because the man now in front of him is Harry.

It’s Harry, and he’s smiling so much his eyes are _sparkling _and his dimples are popping, and Louis doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

“Hi _ schatje,_” he says, he _ offers_, like him being there is normal and Louis is not about to start crying _again. _

Loui’s brain goes into a blackout and the only thing he can think is, _ Harry, Harry is here_. He drops all his luggage and throws himself into his arms.

Harry wraps his arms around him immediately, and he smells just like Louis remembered and knew, and he’s warm, familiar. And suddenly Louis is not as scared as he felt, not as sad as he was seconds ago. He feels just like he used to, those blessed hours before he left. Everything is so, so right.

Here, tied in each other’s arms, laughing and shedding a tear or two, they fit.

It takes him several seconds to find his voice again, during which Harry continues to kiss the top of his head and celebrating his return in soft whispers.

“You… You’re here!” he blurts out, stumbling over his words, his face still pressed on Harry’s jacket. He’s not ready to let him go yet.

“I am!” Harry sounds overjoyed.

“You… you came here,” he repeats, because he still can’t believe this is true. He doesn’t want to stop hugging him and realises he was just dreaming, like he maybe just fell asleep slouched over some bench in the airport.

“I did!” he exclaims, still as happy as him, still not letting him go. 

Louis turns his face up the tiniest bit, just to look at him better.

“But how… How did you…”

“You told me about the landing time, yesterday. It wasn’t that difficult.” He _winks _at him.

Harry is _here_. And he has such a cheeky glint in his eyes, Louis didn’t even comprehend how much he was missing him.

He untangles him from his warm hug, and then get closer again to kiss him.

Maybe his stubble is gone, _ Louis doesn’t know and doesn’t care, _but his strawberry chapstick is still firmly there and Harry is just so real, under some more fluorescent lights, kissing him back with his same passion.

Louis’ hands are cupping his face and he can’t stop kissing him, touching him, laughing on Harry’s lips, still incredulous that this happened, still incredulous that Harry came to surprise him like this.

Maybe they’re kissing too intimately for being at an airport, but Louis can’t bring himself to care: under his hands, Harry is _here_, he came all this way to surprise him, and in their bubble there’s just the two of them, and they keep on kissing, again and again.

He lets him go again, to look at him better in the eyes: Harry, clearly, is as over the moon as he is.

“_Schatje_,” he murmurs, all dimples and soft touches.

“You… came here for me.”

Louis still can’t believe it. He knows, rationally, that the city is not that far, but it’s not a matter of that, it’s a matter of how much thought Harry had put into this gesture. Harry already knows him well enough to understand how lonely and sad he must have felt, and came here, so late at night, just to surprise him. “I… thank you, love. You have no idea of how much I needed it,” he says, sincerely.

“Oh, it’s good you’re happy,” he’s still half laughing, too giddy to remain serious. “Zayn was all like, _ ‘he’s gonna be tired, leave him alone’_.”

Louis rests one hand over his soft cheek: he was right, his stubble is gone. He looks incredible, with all this happiness pouring out of him. “Glad you didn’t listen to him,” he confesses.

He can’t stop touching him, still, because he can’t believe he got to hug and see and _kiss _him again so soon. He's there, real in front of him, with his bunny teeth poking out his pink lips, and that sparkle in his eyes and-

“You... You cut your hair?!”

Louis takes a step back for the shock, like to let himself see the bigger picture: but even from this distance Harry’s hair is now short, so short. Too short, maybe? Louis can see his _ears, _and he has a small quiff that opens his sweet face even more.

He was so lost in the happiness of seeing him again, he didn’t notice how his long hair, that grew past his jaw by that point, is now gone.

“I- Yeah! I did!” Harry passes a hand through his curls, that bounce back happily. His hair looks _so much _curlier than before. “I didn’t want to spoil it yesterday with the FaceTime, I wanted to see your face in real life, you know? So yeah, sorry, no forehead tattoo. And, umh.”

He’s so clearly nervous, still smiling but now a bit curled into himself. Louis gets closer to him again, and caresses the back of his head. _ Oh, _his hair is so soft, this is so new. Louis feels still incredibly confused, but he’s smiling again.

“And, umh, yeah,” Harry stammers some more. “What do you think?”

“I-” for an entire second, Louis thinks _well, that could be tricky. _But then he drives the thought away, because there’s he’s not scared of giving the wrong answer: he and him, they’re not playing games. There’s no downside in being honest, he had learned. “I think it’s great. I think you look great,” he says, sincerely.

“Yeah?” Harry preens under the praise and finally starts smiling again like he was before.

“Of course it is. But you’re so beautiful, you couldn't look bad even if you tried,” Louis continues, earnest, while still playing with his curls. He can’t put any locks between his ear anymore, but he’ll get over it.

“Oh come on,” Harry brushes it off.

“I like you, I’d like you in any possible way,” Louis continues, undaunted, because he missed this way too much. Praising and teasing Harry and seeing him blushing and blushing, just like now? Priceless.

“I'm serious,” he insists. “But, why...?” he lingers, unable to not ask such an obvious question.

Harry said so himself: his hair is not _just _hair. It’s how much he recognized to love himself, how much he was ready to give himself what he deserved. It was his happiness, his point of pride. Growing it back, as long as he used to have it, was for him a sign that said, _ I belong to myself again_.

He even told Louis he wanted to have it as long as he did some years ago, and maybe even longer. Louis had told him that he would have looked amazing in it, and reminded him he was semi-decent in making braids, which obviously made Harry go all starry-eyed at the thought.

And it’s not only that, it’s also the nightmare he had shortly before they had to say goodbye, it was how he woke up tugging his hair, terrified it was gone again without his consent, distressed like Louis has never seen him before.

“It’s just…” Harry moves his hair again. Louis gets mesmerized by how the short curls sway on his head. There’s so much he can’t wait to grow accustomed to again. “Honestly? Got tired. The past can't claim me, and neither can my hair. And, umh,” He lowers his face for a moment, and Louis knows his tears are near. “I don’t wanna wear anything that reminds me of that, I want a fresh start.”

Louis doesn’t even try to stop himself, and when his new tears pool up in his eyes he just moves to hug him again.

“You're so, so great,” he whispers on his nape, like it’s a secret. The whole world can see how brave Harry is, but at this moment, there’s just the two of them. “You’re so brave.”

“Yeah, right,” Harry tries to assume a dismissive tone, but Louis can hear from his voice he is getting teary-eyed too. “You’re the one to talk. Never met anyone as brave as you are.”

Louis lets him go, uncaring of the few tears now flowing down his cheeks. Harry looks just like him: tired face, happiest eyes, a couple of tears here and there.

“You know what? You're right. There's such a bright future ahead.” 

“Ahead of _us_,” Harry adds, like it wasn’t implied in Louis’ words already.

“Yeah, of course.” He goes on his tippy toes and kisses him again, just because he can. “I'm so happy I'm here. I'm so happy with you now. There’s no place I’d rather be,” he adds, knowing how big it is for him to say that, but so certain of it.

He’s with Harry, he’s _home_.

Harry kisses him back, like they’re playing a game with no losers and only winners. He takes Louis’ suitcase with one hand, not listening to Louis’ protests (_“you must be so tired", “and you’re not?”, “I didn’t take a plane and said goodbye to my family, so, no. You’ve got the backpack, come on”_) and squeezes Louis’ right hand with his free one.

“_Laten we naar huis gaan_, shall we?” Louis murmurs softly on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry turns to him, grinning from ear to ear, and gives him another kiss. There are only winners here, and it’s the two of them.

“Yeah,” he murmurs back. “Let's go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Laten we naar huis gaan” -> Let's go home (♡♡♡)  
************  
The poem Louis and Fizzy talk about is ‘Song’ by Allen Ginsberg, very recommended  
************  
Oh. I can’t quite believe it’s over. I’ve spent a lot of time and energy thinking, planning and writing this story, it feels a bit like I gave birth to it and now I’m a mother (?). All of this took a lot of out me but I’m so happy I stuck with it and finished writing it. I really poured my heart and soul in some bits of this, so for me to share it all has been challenging but so worth it.  
I wanted to thank my wonderful friend S, who will never see this, for allowing me to talk her ears off for a year and a half straight about this. You’re the realest and I wouldn't have been able to do this without you. I wanted to thank E, too, for making the beautiful moodboard for this fic.  
And I wanted to thank every single one of you. Some of you really opened this when it had one single chapter, stuck with it, left me a comment on every single chapter (!!!), and be sure of this: I remember your username, thought about you as a friend and you’ve made me the happiest I’ve ever been. Seriously. You bloody legends, you.  
************  
I’ll go before I cry, but before that: if you liked this, please feel free to leave a kudos or a comment. I’ll cherish them forever and I’m not even kidding.  
************  
Lastly, [ my tumblr ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/), [ the fic post ](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/post/625001364010024960/amsterdam-with-you), too, if you wanna reblog it, save it or anything else.  
For the aesthetic or the atmosphere of this fic, you can check out either [ my ‘awy’ tag on my tumblr](https://chrysopon.tumblr.com/tagged/awy)  
or the [ playlist ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL5momjAjTuX6twPBNWmdXHrC46ATa8szU) I made for this.  
Bye again, and thank you for following me in this journey ♡


End file.
